


The Second Year

by meteorshowers



Series: All Falls Are Fatal [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Depression, Destroying Childhood Memories, Dreams, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Male Friendship, Memories, Multi, Platonic Romance, Post Reichenbach, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Secrets, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 22:57:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meteorshowers/pseuds/meteorshowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson moves back to his old flat on Baker Street with Mary Morstan. Thoughts of Sherlock plague his mind and start to drive him mad, and Mary tries to help but there is only so much she can do. Mycroft is determined to break the couple apart for safety precautions. John is determined to keep Mary in his life, yet he continues to question his feelings for Sherlock.</p><p>After killing the first major Assassin, Sherlock Holmes finds himself recovering in a strange new environment. Discovering that he is back in the house of his childhood brings back bitter memories and resentments, but he still thinks of John. There's still much to do in order to find the last two major Assassins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Really Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary was his future.
> 
> Not Sherlock.
> 
> It was time to face this.
> 
> To move on.
> 
> Live life.
> 
> Sherlock was gone.
> 
> He wasn’t coming back.
> 
> ...

**Beginning of Part Two**

_This was it._

_There was no turning back._

John held onto Mary’s hand, he breathed steadily as he looked out the cab window. The familiar road was coming into view. His heart was beating swiftly, he wondered if Mary could feel how fast his pulse was. 

_This is Baker Street._

_I’m coming home._

_This is actually happening._

The cab came to a slow stop in front of _Speedy’s_ , right beside was a large door with _221_ in gold lettering. Nothing was different. Nothing seemed to change during the time that John had been away.

_Had it already been almost a year?_

John swallowed the thick lump in his throat, Mary was waiting for him to exit the cab. The driver looked disinterested, and a little impatient. Gripping the cool handle of the car door, John pushed it open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Mary stepped out right behind him, she held onto his shoulder. 

_I can do this._

Looking back at Mary, John smiled. Having her with him was going to make this a lot easier. She returned a bright smile, the street lamps reflected against her hair and turned it to gold. Breaking the gaze, Mary was the one to open the boot of the cab and begin to take out their luggage. John took both suitcases from her as she paid the cabby.

It was very late by now, almost mid-night. They had left Harry’s a little after sundown and the drive had been a little longer than expected. But John was relieved that they could quickly settle in and sleep before completely assessing the flat. John looked for his keys, they had to be somewhere. But before he looked through his bags, Mrs. Hudson was at the door to greet them. Shock was evident by her expression.

“Hello, John!” she began after recovering. She clutched her dressing gown over her body, feeling exposed in the open doorway. There was a brief silence before Mrs. Hudson continued, “Come in, come in! You must be Mary Morstan,” Mrs. Hudson looked at Mary, all smiles and kindness. Mary shook her hand to return the greeting, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hudson. John has told me all about you!” John admired the kindness in Mary’s greeting, he knew that they would get along fine.

“I hope those were _good_ things that he’s told you,” They both laughed, John just smiled at the two of them and felt pride overwhelm him. If Mrs. Hudson approved of Mary this quickly, things would go well. Mrs. Hudson had had a knack at approving or disproving John’s past girlfriends. If Mrs. Hudson had a bad feeling about someone, John trusted her, he’d break off the relationship. John looked up to her as a second mother, and he valued her opinion over any other woman. 

John looked into the entrance as Mrs. Hudson and Mary held a nice conversation in the doorway. Nothing had changed, nothing at all. It felt as if John had never left. This place was so unique and familiar, it smelled of tea and biscuits. 

_This was home._

“How about we have some tea. I have water on the boil, we could have a chat before you settle in. I know it’s late, but pleasant surprises don’t come to my door everyday.” The couple followed Mrs. Hudson inside, leaving their luggage by the stairs and following her into her little kitchen. 

The kettle was whistling, the room was warm from the steam and the hot element from the stove. John and Mary settled down in chairs at her little table and shed their coats from their shoulders. John patted Mary’s hand and she smiled back at him in return. She liked Mrs. Hudson, he could see it in her expression. John watched as Mary looked at her surroundings, she was taking everything in, memorizing it. 

“There now,” Mrs. Hudson brought tea cups and tea bags and placed it on the table before them. Pouring the water into their cups, she asked Mary about herself. As their tea steeped, Mary told Mrs. Hudson about working as a tutor at a small school near her house. Mrs. Hudson asked about the children she worked with and Mary obliged, already comfortable with her new acquaintance. Mary then mentioned her love for gardening, something that Mrs. Hudson was pleased to hear. Mrs. Hudson beamed and mentioned that she had a garden out back, that Mary could assist her in caring for during the warmer months. Then Mrs. Hudson asked about how John and Mary met. Mary told the story with a little of John’s help. It started on Mary’s front lawn, that cool late-autumn morning. They spoke about having tea at Mary’s house, the daily visits, the walks through the park. 

Mrs. Hudson loved the story, she watched Mary give the recollection, but shared small glances with John from time to time. She gave John a look that said “I’m so happy for you.” And John smiled back at her in return, still holding Mary’s hand.

Before long, it was almost midnight. Mrs. Hudson glanced at the clock and quickly started putting away dishes, dumping the leftover tea in the sink. Mary and John helped her clean up the kitchen and then parted with her for the night. 

Going up the stairs to John’s old flat, Mary moved closer to him. “Mrs. Hudson really is a lovely woman, I can see why you love her so much. I feel bad that she’s been on her own so long.”

“Yeah, I didn’t realize how much I missed her until she brought us in. Though I feel bad that we came here so late. She’s probably exhausted.” John pulled the luggage up another step and left them at the top of the stairs. Pulling out his key, he unlocked the door to the sitting room. Mary stepped inside, looking around her. John came behind her, feeling weary about the memories and emotions that this place would stir up inside him. Mary gave him a reassuring look and pulled onto his left arm.

The only light that came into the room was from the two windows across from them. The light from the street cascaded over each surface. The sofa and armchairs, the table, the floor. John could see the yellow smiley face on the right wall, there was still a few bullets lodged into it, tearing at the wallpaper. Mary didn’t say anything, she knew that John would need some time. 

_This wasn’t easy, of course it wasn’t._

John breathed a shaky sigh, he bit onto his lower lip and tried not to express the conflicting emotions inside.

_Sadness._

_Relief._

_Anger._

_Guilt._

_Rage._

He tried to keep it all inside, he wanted to tell Mary that he needed to be alone. 

_He needed space._

_But he needed her._

_The more that John wanted to push her away…_

_The more he wanted to hold onto her._

Mary seemed to understand, she held onto him, her face somber and patient. John ignored the flood of memories and emotions as he looked at Mary. 

_Mary was his future._

_Not Sherlock._

_It was time to face this._

_To move on._

_Live life._

_Sherlock was gone._

_He wasn’t coming back._

“John, I’ll take the luggage to our room… Where is it?” She was still patient in her tone, understanding. John was thankful for that. 

“Upstairs, it’s an attic room. I’m fine now… let me help you.” John took a last lingering look at the sitting room and the took their luggage towards the staircase. Mary helped him up the stairs, his limp had gotten worse again, so he leaned onto her and the railing for support.

When they got to the top, John stumbled towards his old bedroom door and slowly opened it. Mary rolled their luggage into the small room, revelling at the ordinariness of it, it’s simplicity.

John hadn’t left much behind here. A few papers and news articles were still in his drawer, collecting dust. He pulled onto the chain from the old lamp and a dim light brightened the room. Mary sat at the edge of the bed, she watched John as he took in every corner, every surface. Everything had remained the same here too. 

_Why had he expected it to be different?_

_Why had nothing changed here?_

He sat at the edge of the mattress beside Mary, he could feel the warmth from her body against him. He wanted to lean on her, cry into her shoulder, but John wasn’t one to cry. 

_He couldn’t._

_He wouldn’t._

Mary pulled her arms around him, held him close. She didn’t say anything, she wouldn’t make it worse for him. 

_John needed this._

_He needed her beside him, holding him._

_He needed silence._

_He needed to let everything go._

“Thank you,” his voice was rough, it was worn, tired. Mary kissed the skin beside his mouth, a chaste kiss. He felt a sob shake him and he closed his eyes.

_He felt the barriers break down._

_He couldn’t breath._

_Couldn’t think._

_He missed Sherlock._

_He needed Sherlock to come back._

_He wanted Sherlock to be alive again._

_Why didn’t he save him before…_

_He’d stand beside Sherlock, on that roof, if he could._

_He’d hold his hand, who cares what people would say._

_He’d have given Sherlock a reason to stay._

_But what was that reason?_

_Why did he want Sherlock to stay?_

_…_

_Because he loved him._

 


	2. Air in Lungs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wasn’t in the warehouse anymore.
> 
> He wasn’t on a floor with paper scattered around him.
> 
> It wasn’t dark, or cold.
> 
> Sherlock breathed. 
> 
> He had oxygen.
> 
> It didn’t make sense.
> 
> Where was he?
> 
> ...

*****

“Sherlock!” The voice was so far away, so distant. Sherlock didn’t want to move, he _couldn’t_ move. He tried to open his eyes, lift his hand, speak, _anything_. But nothing was working. 

_John._

_I’m over here._

_Please find me._

_I’m afraid…_

_Fear, like sentiment, was one of his worse enemies._

_Both were weaknesses._

_Sherlock hated weakness._

“Sherlock!” John called again, Sherlock could hear his heavy footsteps coming closer. So much closer, yet still so far away. Sherlock felt so vulnerable, glued to a cold floor strewn with papers and blood. 

_What had happened?_

_Why was it so dark, so cold?_

There was another body to his right, there seemed to be much more blood surrounding it. Sherlock could open his eyes now, he could look at his surroundings, but everything seemed so shaky that he couldn’t trust his senses. His mind was cloudy, it felt like a very painful and realistic dream. 

_Why was he here?_

_He couldn’t remember._

_But there had to be a reason._

Sherlock tried to open his mouth, breath, say something. He tried to inhale, exhale. 

_John was his oxygen._

_But he didn’t have John anymore._

_So was he dying?_

He couldn’t muster the air to laugh, but he wanted to laugh. It all seemed so funny. There was no reasonable way that John could be his oxygen. It was impossible. John was a living, breathing human. He wasn’t an element. 

All of this felt like a repeat of earlier thoughts. How long ago was it? When had Sherlock used that same metaphor? It seemed like a lifetime ago. A time when his loneliness was still fresh in his mind, new. Sherlock had aged so much since then, so much had happened…

_That’s right!_

_The assassin!_

_Sherlock was here because of the assassin._

_Was the man dead?_

_Did Sherlock kill him?_

_Was Sherlock dead?_

Sherlock hated having questions. They made him feel like an invalid, someone without the ability to understand, to reason. Almost everything had always made sense to Sherlock.

_Except John._

_John._

“John,” he managed to whisper, his voice was rough, he could hardly hear it. It sounded far away, even to his own ears. The crumpled papers beneath his body were so soft, almost fluid. 

_This wasn’t real._

_It couldn’t be._

_Something was… off._

“John,” he whispered again, his heart rate started to speed up again, he felt the drying blood on his shirt cling to his skin. He groped at the ground, he couldn’t hear the papers crinkle between his fingers, he couldn’t hear anything except his rapid breathing. 

_John._

He felt a sob rise in his throat, tears obscured his vision. But he finally saw a figure run towards him. He tired to reach for John, he wanted to know that John was real. 

“John!” he tried to speak louder, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. John looked so worried, so… aged. He had something in his hand, Sherlock couldn’t see it. 

_What was John holding?_

Sherlock could feel his body being lifted from the ground, he was a dead weight. He couldn’t feel his legs and his arms had grown limp at his sides. John was holding him to his chest, Sherlock felt John’s warm breath cool his forehead. 

_Oxygen._

_John was his oxygen._

He didn’t want to laugh when he thought of it this time, it wasn’t funny. John really was his oxygen. He needed oxygen to survive. Sherlock had been deprived for so long, and in this moment, John was holding him. John was his saviour, his guardian angel. A sort of glow blurred the lines of John’s face, his hair, the creases in his jacket. 

Sherlock felt his hand grip at John’s jacket, testing the strength in his individual muscles, tendons, and joints. He held on so tight, he didn’t want to let go. 

_How long would John stay with him?_

_How long would Sherlock have his oxygen?_

John looked into his eyes, there was a seriousness there, something that told Sherlock that he had something important to say or do. Sherlock tried to keep his eyes locked with John’s, but his body was protesting, trying to pull him away. John seemed to know that their time was limited. He seemed to sense that Sherlock wouldn’t linger for much longer. Without a moments hesitation, John pulled his closed fist to Sherlock’s chest, just over his still-beating heart. 

Sherlock tried to watch, tried to hold on. He held onto John’s jacket with as much energy as he could muster. John opened his fist against the spot where the assassin’s blood had dried to Sherlock’s clothes. 

He could feel the warmth from John’s palm against his chest, he could feel something cold and heavy in John’s palm, it brought on curiosity, relief, and agony. 

_This was it._

_Sherlock had seconds._

_Maybe less._

“John,” he whispered against John’s chest, still holding onto his jacket. His hand moved away from Sherlock’s chest and in it’s place was a shiny sliver key. Sherlock didn’t know what it could mean, it distracted him from what he had wanted to say to John. 

_Seconds._

_Milliseconds._

“John… I love-”

_Time was up._

 

 

 “-you,” Sherlock rasped, his voice raw and weak. It took a second for Sherlock to feel the shift of location and time. His eyes shot open with amazing speed.

_He wasn’t in the warehouse anymore._

_He wasn’t on a floor with paper scattered around him._

_It wasn’t dark, or cold._

Sherlock breathed. 

_He had oxygen._

_It didn’t make sense._

_Where was he?_

Testing his limbs, Sherlock laid the palms of his hands beneath him.

_Cotton._

_Warm._

_Soft._

_Padded._

_A mattress._

Sherlock supported his torso by pushing down on the mattress with his hands. He sat up, feeling the muscles in his arms and chest respond with pain. Leaning back on the pillows behind him, he grimaced and looked around him.

This place seemed familiar, but he couldn’t figure it out. He’d probably deleted it from his memory long ago. Might have been unimportant, or accompanied by bitter memories.

_It was probably the second option._

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door near the foot of the bed. Sherlock felt fear wash over him as he glared at the door. He recognized the knocking pattern.

_Mycroft._

Without waiting for a reply or answer, Mycroft strolled into the room, a naughty smirk on his face. 

_Sherlock hated that expression._

_It meant that Mycroft had won and Sherlock had lost._

_It meant that bragging was in order._

_It meant that Mycroft was as much of a dick as he ever was._

“Good afternoon, little brother,” Mycroft sat in a chair at the foot of the bed. He crossed his legs and laid his hands in his lap. 

_Back straight._

_Nose in the air._

_Gleam in his eyes._

_Mycroft was definitely here to scold Sherlock, and then brag._

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, he slumped down on the bed as if he was a child still, ready for his scolding. Yet, at the same time, ready for anything that Mycroft had to say. Nothing would come as a surprise anymore.

_Except this mysterious location, of course._

“How was your rest, Sherlock? I hope you slept soundly?” Sherlock didn’t want to answer, the result of his rest would be evident in his face, his body language. Mycroft knew how to read Sherlock as if he were a favourite book. 

_Mycroft knew everything._

Sherlock glared, biting his lip. He didn’t know what to say to Mycroft, he could sense the oddness of this situation. 

Sherlock was in a bedroom.

_Who’s bedroom?_

_Who’s home?_

The last memory that he could come up with was being on the ground in that warehouse. 

_He didn’t die there._

_He survived…_

Mycroft looked at Sherlock impatiently, waiting for a reply. Behind that knowing smile was anger. Sherlock was sure of it. 

“What happened, Mycroft?” There was no point in prolonging the conversation, Sherlock wanted to know what happened in that warehouse, he wanted to know how much of it was real. The part with John _had_ to be imagined.

Mycroft sighed and shifted in his chair, disappointment seemed to cross his features. “Well, a _lot_ happened. Where do I start, Sherlock? Why did you leave for the assassin without contacting me?”

Sherlock had hoped that his brother would leave the questions for later, but Mycroft was losing his patience, and Sherlock wasn’t about to try starting another war. 

“I don’t know. I understand that it was wrong of me, I _know_ the danger that I put myself in…” Sherlock looked down at his bruised arms, the rest of him was covered in warm blankets and gauze, but he could feel the burn of more wounds over almost every surface of his skin. “But I _had_ to do it. I _had_ to leave. I couldn’t stay in that little room any longer. I had to do something before I destroyed myself.”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock with a touch of pity. Mycroft could see the inner-battle that he was fighting. He could see it through both Sherlock’s physical and mental state. The drugs had nearly killed him. 

“I see,” Mycroft looked down at his feet, away from Sherlock, as if to preserve his thoughts and feelings from Sherlock’s abilities. But it wasn’t nearly that easy, Mycroft knew because he shared those abilities of deduction too. “Well, I suppose I should tell you what happened while you were gallivanting around the dangerous side of London. 

“We had increased surveillance on you, it was for your protection. And when you left the basement that night, we saw right away. I knew where you would be going, we had tracked that same location for the assassin before. But you shouldn’t have done it, Sherlock. We weren’t even _nearly_ ready for the troubles to come in that abandoned warehouse. So I texted you, quite a few times, actually. I had warned you before but you have always enjoyed ignoring my orders, this wasn’t any different.” Sherlock listened to Mycroft’s words, his sentences seemed so choppy, odd. Unlike Mycroft. “The assassin knew you were coming, they were planning on killing you while you were still stumbling around the warehouse. We found his tracks, he was a snipper, so it was easy enough for him to watch you.”

Sherlock balled his fists, he could feel his short finger nails dig into the skin on his palms. He tried to remember back to that night. Hearing Mycroft retell the event was helping things come back to the surface of Sherlock’s brain. Though it was clouded, Sherlock could feel reality shift back into place. The “memory” of John and the silver key began to fade and disappear from his mind. 

_No. Don’t do this._

_John._

_Come back._

He tried not to breath shakily, but everything seemed unstable. Sherlock tried to hold onto the thought of John. 

_His eyes._

_The lines on his skin._

_The warmth of his palm against Sherlock’s chest._

_The jacket, how tightly Sherlock held on._

Sherlock had no idea what Mycroft was saying now, maybe Mycroft wasn’t even speaking. Maybe Mycroft was watching Sherlock, waiting for him to steady his heart rate and breathing, waiting for Sherlock to unclench his fists and relax his jaw.

“I can’t forget. I won’t forget.” Sherlock could see John so clearly behind his eyelids, still preserved in his mind. 

_Memories of what happens in dreams don’t tend to linger or remain._

_Unless they are memorable enough._

_So why was it so hard to hold onto the memory of John’s face, his warmth, his voice?_

“Sherlock!” said a voice directly beside Sherlock’s left ear, it almost echoed, calling him back to the surface, back to reality. 

_I don’t want to forget you._

Sherlock’s eyes shot open, still bleary and unfocused. He felt the strong grasp of Mycroft’s hands gripping his shoulders. Sherlock felt a wave of fear rush through him, he wanted to hold onto Mycroft, cry on his shoulder like a child awoken from a nightmare. He wanted to tell Mycroft about the visions and memories, clashing together in a battle to the death. Everything that was supposed to matter was beginning to break away and fall from his chest. Large lumps of rotten flesh seemed to be seeping from his ribcage, and fall from where his lungs and heart used to be.

_Vital organs._

_Fatal._

Finally, Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, there was fear in his eyes too. Fear in both of their eyes. And fear had always been something easy to hide for the Holmes boys. It was very difficult for their minds to take over their bodies, but in this moment they had both become vulnerable and weak. 

_Easy to destroy._

_But they wouldn’t destroy each other, would they?_

_No._

_They needed to work together._

_That had been the point of this whole operation, right?_

_To do this together._

“Mycroft, I killed him, didn’t I? That wasn’t imagined. I put a bullet in his chest and killed him.” Sherlock bit onto his lower lip, trying to steady himself. Mycroft loosened his grip on Sherlock’s shoulders and began to step away, composing himself. “Yes, you did. Very lucky that you did, too. If you hadn’t killed him, it would have been another missed opportunity, and you wouldn’t have been alive right now.”

Sherlock tried to ignore the scolding tone in Mycroft’s voice and focused on the reality of the events from the abandoned warehouse. 

_The first assassin was dead._

_One down._

_Two to go._

_Lestrade was safe now._  
“Good,” was all that Sherlock said, leaning back onto a pillow and closing his eyes. Mycroft told Sherlock to rest, more would be explained as soon as he was well again. After all, Sherlock still ached with bruises and gashes in his skin. He began to  start breathing freely. 

_Oxygen._

_The life-supporting component of air._

_Colourless._

_Odourless._

_Forms about 20 percent of the earth’s atmosphere._

_The most abundant element in the earth’s crust._

_Mainly in the form of oxides, silicates, and carbonates._

_From the french word oxygene, meaning “Acidifying constituent”._

_Air in lungs._

_John._

_One step closer to John._


	3. Overwhelmed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends protect people…
> 
> And John didn’t protect Sherlock.
> 
> Yes… It all made sense.
> 
> This was John’s fault.
> 
> ...

“John.” 

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

“John.”

“Yes, what is it?”

…

“Open your eyes.”

John opened his eyes against his own wishes. But all that he could see was light. Bright, brilliant light. 

_Where was Sherlock?_

“Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Beside you.”

John turned to see the tall, dark form of Sherlock Holmes. John had to squint his eyes because the light surrounding them was blinding. Yet he still tried to memorize every detail of his dead friend’s face. 

_What colour were his eyes, again?_

_Blue?_

_Green?_

_Grey?_

“Does it matter?” Sherlock asked quietly, raising an eyebrow. 

John was taken aback, Sherlock had just responded to his thoughts. John hadn’t known that Sherlock’s deductive abilities extended that far. Had Sherlock always been able to read John mind?

_He bloody-well-hoped not._

_That would have been disastrous._

“Why, John?” Again, he was reading John’s thoughts.

“Let me see your eyes,” John said, changing the subject. He pulled Sherlock’s face down towards his own, examining the irises of his eyes. Trying the define the colour.

“How often does your eye colour change?”

“I don’t know.”

John pulled away from their close distance, he smirked at Sherlock as if he had just called himself an idiot. “But I thought you knew _everything_?”

“Almost everything. I have no knowledge of literature, philosophy, and astronomy as you have pointed out before. But why would that matter?”

John laughed and looked down at his feet, “ You _are_ an idiot.”

Sherlock closed his mouth and grinned back at him, there was something in his eyes that John couldn’t label. 

_Love._

_That was it._

So John returned the smile and looked back at Sherlock with an intimacy that he didn’t know they could possess. 

It was so tempting, to lean in. To taste those full lips, watch his eyes change colour in the brightness of this… space. 

“You should… you know.” Sherlock said, looking down at John lips and back into his eyes. John felt his heart begin to pound in his chest, unbelievably fast. 

He could almost feel his pupils dilate.

_Was that even possible?_

“How long have you known?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, instead he sighed and closed his eyes as if he was being tortured with questions he didn’t know the answers to…

_But… maybe?_

_Maybe he didn’t know._

_Had they both been in the dark before?_

As ironic as it was to their current situation, maybe during the slow progress through time… they had learned to love each other in a way that they didn’t see possible or probable before. 

_This was the moment they were sharing in order to realize those feelings._

_Profess it._

_Their love-_

_This sounded so stupid. Too sentimental._

_So unlike them._

“John. Stop thinking so much.”

“Why?”

“Because you shouldn’t overanalyze some things… You should just let them happen.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

_Silence._

Sherlock still had his eyes closed, as if in concentration. 

“Fine, then.” John pulled onto Sherlock’s coat collar, bringing the man towards him. Sherlock’s eyes were open now, he looked shocked, surprised, worried. 

Before Sherlock could say anything, John pulled their faces together. John wasn’t as gentle as he could have been, he brought Sherlock’s lips to his own with bruising force. Sherlock responded, putting his arms around John with a softness that was very much unlike himself. John’s breathing was shaky with each break of the kiss, he held onto Sherlock’s face in his hands, rubbed his thumbs along Sherlock’s cheekbones. He felt Sherlock taste him, run his tongue along John’s lips, then his teeth. The sensation was unlike anything that John had felt before, for anyone.

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

He wanted to say it. He had suppressed it for so long. Told himself that it wasn’t true. But he wanted to believe it now. He hands moved into Sherlock’s hair and tightened onto the soft curls, it anchored John down, kept him here. _Grounded._

Sherlock licked his own lips and pulled away to look into John’s eyes. There was definitely love there, in that look. 

_John drowned in it._

_Love._

He felt himself become weak in Sherlock’s arms. He was heavy, falling. But Sherlock was falling with him. Everything was so bright, unreal. John held onto him with all the strength he could muster. The falling sensation wasn’t going away, it was thrilling and frightening. 

_All falls are fatal it seems._

_And this was a different kind of falling._

_Falling in love._

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to say something. He bit his lip and blinked.

Looking back at John with those indescribably coloured eyes, he spoke.

“John, I love you t-”

 

 

John woke with a start, sitting up in bed. 

_It was just a dream._

_It was just a dream._

_It was just a dream._

_Sherlock wasn’t there._

_This was reality._

_Sherlock is still dead._

_Sherlock didn’t love me._

_I don’t love Sherlock._

_That was just a dream._

“John, are you alright?” He felt warm hands touch his shoulder. Mary. “Yes, I’m fine… It was just a… bad… dream.”

_Yes._

_It was just a dream._

“I need a minute,” John said as he pulled himself out of bed and walked towards the door. 

John was still trying to get used to 221B. He had been here for a month now, and he still found himself feeling lost in his own home. He closed the bedroom door behind himself and started down the stairs to the sitting room/ kitchen area of the flat. 

_He’d make some tea._

_He’d forget about the dream._

_But…_

_He didn’t want to forget it._

_Sherlock…_

_I don’t want to forget you._

He opened the door to the kitchen and stepped towards the cupboard. Pulling out the tea, he thought about the kiss.

_Sherlock’s kiss._

It had felt so different, so unreal. Probably because it was a dream… But now John wished that he could see what it really was like… to kiss Sherlock, that is.

Putting the water on boil, he leaned against the counter, he crossed his arms over his chest, he felt cold. 

_He could still remember the touch of Sherlock arms around him._

_So protective._

_So safe._

_Keeping him grounded before he started to fall._

John hoped that Mary wouldn’t come down tonight, whenever she did, John felt oddly uncomfortable. As if he had broken a rule, letting Mary stay here with him.

_This was Sherlock’s home after all._

_John and Sherlock’s home._

_No-one else was suppose to live here._

_This was John and Sherlock’s space, just for them._

_It was the only place that they could be themselves around each other._

_They didn’t have to worry about what people thought of them when they were here._

_No-one could climb the windows and sneak a peek._

_See if Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson really were together._

_Romantically, that is…_

_But life had been so normal, so boring before._

_John would read the newspaper or type on his laptop._

_Sherlock would skulk on the sofa or mix chemicals in the kitchen._

_They’re life had been so ordinary._

_And so extraordinary._

_And now Sherlock wasn’t here._

John drew in a shallow breath and looked at the hallway that led to Sherlock’s room. He’d make camp outside of Sherlock’s bedroom, just as he always did. He’d wait for Sherlock to open the door and come out to make John tea, offer some company. 

When the tea was ready, John took a sip and moved towards the hallway. He had had many strange dreams since moving back into the flat. It was as if the old place had ruffled up memories and created new realities in his dreams. 

_Realities where Sherlock was alive._

_Where John could tell Sherlock how much he loved him._

_Where Sherlock almost said the words, but never completed the sentence._

_John wanted to hear the whole sentence._

_He wanted to hear Sherlock voice profess his love._

_It had seemed so unrealistic, so unlike Sherlock._

_Maybe that’s why the Sherlock in John’s dreams could never complete it._

_Because it wasn’t going to happen._

_Ever._

_He lost that hope on the day that Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Barts._

John stood in front of Sherlock’s door. He could already feel an uneasy quiver in his stomach, it could be mistaken as hope or fear. 

_Either one._

Without another thought, John slid down the wall, his cup of tea in his left hand. He could feel the cold hollowness of the wall against his back. The cool wooden floor beneath him. 

_There’s no-one on the other side of the door._

_No-one is going to open that door and comfort me._

_Sherlock’s not coming back._

_He’s not here._

_So why am I still waiting?_

John took another sip of tea, squeezing his eyelids shut and trying to keep the memory of Sherlock’s lips against his own. 

_Soft._

_Warm._

_Comfortable._

_Those eyes._

_They were blue this time._

_There was something in his eyes…_

_Something that John recognized…_

_He’d seen that look before._

_Many times._

_Yet each and every time, John had misunderstood._

_It was what love looked like._

_Unconditional, indescribable, love._

_Wait…_

_Did that mean…_

_Did Sherlock…_

_No._

John had thought about it before. He’d thought about the prospect of Sherlock loving him. But it was a platonic love, intimate but… not _that_ intimate… 

_Sherlock wasn’t in love with John._

_No._

_If he loved John… truly loved him…_

_He wouldn’t of jumped from that building._

_No._

_He wouldn’t…_

John bit onto his lip, trying to hold in bottled up emotions. He couldn’t understand why his mind was doing this to him, looking for answers, the _wrong_ answers. He curled up his legs, managing the fetal position. He lay his head down on his knees, his lungs were burning, his head pounding, his heart felt… heavy, weighed down by something. 

_Guilt?_

_Yeah… guilt._

_Of course._

_Guilt because he wasn’t there for Sherlock._

_Guilt because he called Sherlock a machine, right before leaving him in that lab._

_Guilt because he didn’t stop Sherlock._

_Guilt because he was the one to put Sherlock there._

_Friends protect people…_

_And John didn’t protect Sherlock._

_Yes… It all made sense._

_This was John’s fault._

_And now, this was John’s punishment._

_Dreams and thoughts of what could have been._

_The possibilities…_

_Sherlock._

 

“John,” it sounded so far away, so distant. Drowsy pain brought John back to the surface. “John, wake up, love.”

“Sherlock!” he cried out with a start. He opened his eyes and looked into green eyes. 

_Different eyes._

_Mary._

“Mary,” John tried to correct himself, already a couple pauses too late. Mary was crouched down in front of him, her bathrobe lose around her waist. He could see the worry in her eyes, there was no doubt that she had heard him say “Sherlock” moments ago. John wanted to apologize, something, anything. 

She put a hand to his face, a calming gesture, as if to assure John that he was forgiven. Mary offered a sweet, shy smile, but he could see hurt behind her eyes. 

_More guilt._

“Sorry, Mary… I don’t know… last night I had a dream, and without thinking,” he looked up to his right, Sherlock’s bedroom door was still closed, undisturbed. “I guess it was old habits… But I didn’t realize that I fell asleep.”

“It’s alright, John,” Mary began to stand up, she was so patient. “How about you come to the sofa and we can make some breakfast?” John looked up apologetically and tried to stand. He grimaced at the aches that began to spread over his libs, torso, and neck. Falling asleep upright against a wall does that to you.

Mary pretended not to notice. John hated it when people pointed out his physical aches and pains, like his limp. Mary had never bothered him or commented about his limp or his frequent daydreaming. In that way, they were perfect for each other. Mary was indeed a blessing, she was exactly what John had needed.

After some coffee and toast, they sat together on the sofa in silence. Mary tried to sooth John’s aching neck, smoothing her fingers along the nape of his neck as he read the paper. It was moments like this that John felt completely safe and sound. It was the life he had always wanted, in a way. A woman who loved him, someone for him to care for and would care for him in return. 

Only, John knew that this wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t the way he expected things to be. He could never imagine that Sherlock would be out of his life. As soon as they met, Sherlock had been a constant presence. It seemed impossible for him to ever disappear completely, and now, Sherlock only lived in John’s memories, thoughts and dreams. 

“John, what’s that?” Mary interrupted John’s thoughts, she pointed at the lower corner of the first page in the paper. Her eyes became serious with concentration as she read the article in small print. John looked down at the article that Mary had been reading. 

_It was about Sherlock._

John could already feel his heart in his stomach, the heaviness in his chest returned with a vengeance. Most of the article was a blur, John scanned through it so quickly. 

Mary asked John a question, but he couldn’t hear it. The article was saying that Moriarty had vanished soon after the suicide, it mentioned that his disappearance might have something to do with the death of the “great and fake” Sherlock Holmes. John didn’t know what to think or feel.

_Was it possible that Moriarty was still out there?_

_Even if Mycroft had told John that he was safe?_

_Was Moriarty waiting for John to find him?_

“John!” Mary started to sound frustrated, she pointed to the opposite page where another article said in bold font:

**Greg Lestrade resumes position at Scotland Yard.**

So now, Lestrade was back at work, no longer suspended for his working with Sherlock Holmes. But why did they accept him back? It was only a year after Sherlock’s death, and now Lestrade was back at Scotland Yard?

John felt odd, as if this was unreal, still a dream. But it wasn’t, so why were these things happening? Would Mycroft have something to do with it?

_Mycroft._

_Yes, he would._

_He was involved in everything._

“I have to call Mycroft,” John mumbled as he stood from the sofa to get his phone.


	4. Bitter Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sentiment.
> 
> A chemical defeat found in the losing side.
> 
> ...

As Sherlock started to regain full consciousness, Mycroft told him what had happened the night that he had killed the assassin. Apparently while Sherlock was running through to the warehouse, some more of Moriarty’s hidden employees tore apart his basement room. Mr. Peters, the landlord, was seriously injured while trying to stop the break-in. Sherlock was still stunned to find out that the employees discovered his only hiding place, though he wasn’t totally surprised. He knew that Moriarty would be clever, and even in death, he could beat Sherlock. 

Mycroft scolded Sherlock yet again about leaving the rented basement without complete instructions and full permission to hunt down the assassin. While the employees were killed at the scene, none of the important information got into the “Web”s hands. Sherlock had taken all of the most important information with him in his coat pocket when he left the basement that night, it had been a safety precaution, but Mycroft was still unforgiving about the whole predicament. 

As for Sherlock’s present and future whereabouts, he discovered that Mycroft had brought him to the house of their childhood, the grand Holmes family mansion in the country side. And for the remainder of this mission, Sherlock would have to stay here under the watchful eyes of Mycroft… and possibly their mother. 

Sherlock had feared of this new setting, almost sensing the correct location. But since he had deleted it from his mind, he couldn’t be sure until Mycroft told him. 

Of course, Mycroft expected a bitter reaction. After all, this was the only place in the world that Sherlock would never want to come back to again. After running away from home in his youth, Sherlock had had no trouble settling in London, the independent boy he was. Mycroft came to London soon after, tracing his little brother’s every movement and ensuring his protection, even if Sherlock hadn’t wanted it. Their mother was always worried, she _still_ worried. 

“I don’t want to see her,” Sherlock grumbled as he pushed a tray of food away. Mycroft sighed, taking out his phone after receiving a text. “You’ll have to… at some point. She’s your mother, you haven’t seen her in thirteen years. You can’t stay in your room forever.” Sherlock put his hands over his face, covering any expression that Mycroft would surely see through. 

_Sentiment._

_A chemical defeat found in the losing side._

_Sherlock didn’t want to see his mother._

_He couldn’t._

_He wouldn’t._

“She’ll be upset, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, stepping away from Sherlock’s bedroom door, and moving towards the bed. Though he was almost fully recovered, Sherlock didn’t want to leave the comfort of those warm sheets and pillows. The less of his childhood home he saw, the better things would be.

_Again._

_It was the guilt._

_The sentiment._

“It wasn’t _me_ who upset her, Mycroft!” Sherlock always used this argument, he tore his hands away from his face and glared at his older brother. 

_So much bad blood between the two of them._

_Of course it was Mycroft’s fault._

_Perfect, golden, Mycroft._

_The bastard._

Mycroft returned a glare and narrowed his eyes. There wasn’t any sentiment or guilt in Mycroft’s appearance. 

_Of course not._

_Mycroft was either the master of disguise…_

_Or the master of sentiment._

“Then there should be no reason for you to hide from her. If it’s all _my_ fault, you should be able to come to her with open arms. She’d accept _you_ , you know. She always will,” Mycroft said harshly. 

_The thing was… Mycroft was right._

_It wasn’t all Mycroft’s fault._

_Part of the blame had to fall onto Sherlock._

_The psychopath._

_The sociopath._

_The freak._

_Sherlock._

Sherlock began to feel stupid emotions consume him, clouding up the mask of expression he wore. Mycroft had his eyes trained onto him with a power that was intimidating, unnerving. This was not the time to tear open old wounds, nor re-live old and bitter memories of this place.

_Freak._

_No Friends._

_Animal corpses in the grass._

_Experiments._

_Doctors._

_Punishments._

_Hiding._

_Mummy._

_Father._

_Monsters._

_Loneliness._

_Darkness._

_Drugs._

_Blood._

_Scars._

_Open windows._

_Wanting to escape._

_Trying to escape._

_Succeeding._

“Leave me alone, Mycroft,” Sherlock sighed, pulling the covers over his body and waiting to hear the footsteps fade away.

_Just like old times._

_Hiding under the sheets._

_Escaping the anger, pity, sadness of others._

_The worried looks of his family._

_The ignorant brush-off of his father._

_“He needs help.”_

_“No he doesn’t, he just wants attention.”_

_Leave me alone._

_Leave me alone._

_Leave me alone._

Sherlock put his hands on his head, weaving his fingers through his curly hair and pulling with all his strength. He squeezed his eyelids shut and curled into a ball.

_Leave me alone._

_Go away._

_Go away._

_GO AWAY._

The itch was back, it came with a vengeance. Cocaine was sweet release. 

_Sweet._

_Sweet._

_Release._

Sherlock felt coldness creep over his skin, numbing cold. Goose bumps rose to the surface and made him feel exposed, naked. Insecurities that hadn’t resided in his mind for more than half his life were creeping back into his soul like a virus. 

_It must be this goddamned house._

Waves of aching hunger came and went, every now and again it would ease enough to help him breathe again.

_Oxygen._

_John._

_Breathe._

Sherlock relaxed his muscles and let his body sag against the mattress. He tried to remember John’s face, his voice, the way he walked, and how he made his coffee in the morning. He let the ghost of a smile appear on his lips, let the memories sooth him.

_Sherlock could still remember what was important._

_John._

John was a good enough reason for Sherlock to breath, to stay alive. Staying alive wouldn’t be boring when there was the prospect of living for John, breathing for John. 

_Even if John didn’t know it yet._

_Even if there were things John didn’t know._

_Things that even Sherlock couldn’t understand._

_Sentiment._

_Sherlock breath_ ed a laugh and clutched onto the sheet beneath his body. _When had Sherlock allowed “sentiment” to cloud his judgment, his life?_

 

_Was it when he was trying to impress John with his deductive skills?_

_Or when he watched John step into the pool room, covered in semtex?_

 

_Was it when he eagerly tore the bombs from John’s chest?_

_Or when they decided to risk their lives, to kill Moriarty?_

 

_Was it when he listened in on Irene and John’s conversation?_

_Or when he nearly killed the man who threatened to further harm Mrs. Hudson?_

 

_Was it when he actually felt guilt course through him, after the events at Dartmoor?_

_Or when he faked his death to save his friends, and watched John fall apart?_

 

Opening his eyes, Sherlock listened to the silence and remained motionless, taking in his surroundings. There was bookshelves on either side of his bed, almost completely covering the east and west walls of the bedroom. His bed was across from the door and under the window. Afternoon light cascaded down onto the rumpled sheets and reflected the blinding light into his blinking eyes. 

_He probably should get up._

_There was so much to do._

_Time was running out and the sooner that Sherlock found these bastards, the sooner he’d get back to John._

_But…_

_Would John accept him back?_

_Would he forgive Sherlock for the lies, the secrets, the grief?_

_John was with the woman right now?_

_Mary Morstan._

_She must be helping him, comforting him._

_Maybe she’s helped him moved on._

_Forget?_

_No…_

_Just… help._

_But not forget…_

_John wouldn’t forget…_

_Would he?_

Sherlock felt doubt, in himself and in John. It was uncomfortable, almost unnatural. Sherlock prided himself in being completely sure about everything. He had always known the answers.

When he thought that he saw the “hound” while in Dewer’s Hallow, he felt “doubt”. It was unnerving and frightening, in made his hands quiver and his heart rate soar. In that strange emotional state, Sherlock had offended his only friend and true companion. 

And now… Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was beginning to doubt in John’s loyalty. The same unnerving quiver in the root of his soul began to make him doubt in his own friendship, his only friendship. John had texted him, a message that said “I don’t want to forget you.” 

Sherlock told himself that Mary would be good for John, when Mycroft told him about John’s recent developments, he almost wanted to laugh. He was surprised that John could actually remain in a relationship this long… But then he realized that it might have been because John had a new life now, separate from Sherlock’s. And maybe, just maybe, if Sherlock was still there, John might not be thinking about marrying the woman, he might not have even met her in the first place.

_Again._

_All the blame came back to Sherlock._

_Regret._

_Guilt._

_Sentiment._

_Dammit._

Sherlock lifted his body from the mattress and stood up straight, letting his muscles adjust to the sudden movement. 

_He needed his violin._

_He needed his experiments._

_He needed his John._

_Yes…_

_His John._

_His._

_Not Mary’s._

Sherlock glared that the bright sunlight and tore the curtains across the windows, almost tearing the fabric with his strength. Now that there was much less light coming into the room, his eyes had to readjust to the change. He stumbled toward the chair that Mycroft sat in during his visits. A clean set of clothes were neatly folded and pressed in an almost military fashion. 

Picking up the pile of clothing, Sherlock thought back to Buckingham Palace. He could already feel happiness bubble up from his chest and a smile spread across his face at the memory. He had been proud of the joke that him and John had made about Mycroft being “The Queen”. It had been a very fond memory, one that John and him frequently visited whenever Mycroft stopped over at the flat. 

Sherlock tried to compose himself as he started to get dressed in the clothing that Mycroft had left. Being in lounge clothes and pyjamas for so long had made Sherlock forget the feel of fabric, the buttons on his shirt didn’t strain anymore with his recent weight loss. It reminded him of the days before flatmates, when there was no-one there to take care of him. After running his hands through his curly hair, he realized that while unconscious, someone must have trimmed his hair, it was no longer tickling the nape of his neck, it was back to his normal  length. 

Stepping out of the bedroom, he looked into the empty hallway. Swallowing the slight unease that resided at the back of his throat, he walked past rows of doorways and oil paintings. 

_This was his childhood._

_This was his home._

Sherlock hoped that he wouldn’t run into his brother or his mother as he turned a corner and searched his brain for a memory of anything. Since Sherlock “deleted” unnecessary information, the task seemed almost impossible. 

_This home was a nightmare._

_Of course it was deleted._

But now, Sherlock was lost. He couldn’t recall the location of the library, and that was the _only_ place he really thought he could manage staying in. When the experiments were thrown out, Sherlock’s favourite place had been the library. Not to mention, it was quiet and secluded, away from his family. 

Sherlock turned another corner until he saw a door that struck him as important. He might have deleted the memory of this _hell_ , but some memories could not go completely forgotten. This doorway most-definitely would lead him to the library. 

As he turned the door handle and stepped through the threshold, Sherlock began to walk much quicker. He feet led him to another turn, and then another doorway. Pushing two double doors open, he found himself surrounded by shelves and columns of books. The far wall was lit with sunlight from large glass windows, and left intricate patterns on the carpeted floor. Sherlock breathed in the scent of many untouched and forgotten books. His fingers ached for the feel of hardcovers and leather-bound chronicles. 

His senses reminded him of childhood adventures, looking for pirate treasure as he climbed the shelves. Mummy always panicked when she saw him swinging from the ladder with a fake sword in hand, but Father would always reassure her that the young boy would be fine. He had always been very indifferent to danger while in a drunken state… 

Sherlock slid his finger tips along the high shelf and looked for purchase. Dust started to fall as he grabbed hold of a science journal and pulled it into view. 

**The Solar System and It’s Many Components, 1987**

He smiled down at the journal in his hands, stepping toward an armchair to sit in. He remembered the conversation with John about the solar system. “Primary School stuff”. Flipping to the table of contents, Sherlock decided that the solar system was suddenly very interesting. 

_When he got to see John again…_

_If… he saw John again…_

_He’d tell John about the solar system._

_He’d like that… wouldn’t he?_

Sherlock absorbed as much information as he could, not paying attention to the way that time flew by. Before he knew it, he was slouched over in the armchair with his legs dangling over one of the arms and the back of his neck resting against the other. His eyelids dropped from exhaustion and before he could control his bodily functions, he was asleep.

 

Mycroft came into the library to find his little brother curled up in the armchair, a science journal spread across his chest. Careful not to disturb Sherlock, Mycroft pulled the journal and read the label, smiling.

Mycroft would never reveal clear and sincere emotions for his brother to see. But since Sherlock was asleep, he didn’t care that he was smiling down at his baby brother with affection and gentleness. It just seemed so childish and romantic of Sherlock to be reading up on astronomy to win the admiration and devotion of John Watson, if the opportunity ever arose.

As an older brother, Mycroft had always strove for Sherlock’s happiness. Even if Sherlock believed him to be his “arch-enemy”, he must have known that Mycroft has always cared. After all, it was the only reason for Mycroft to follow him into London and keep watchful eyes on him through security cameras. It was an odd way to show love, but it was a “Holmes” way, unique in it’s methods.

Mycroft didn’t bother to wake him, through he knew that Sherlock would be sore and weary when he awoke from the chair in the morning. Before leaving the library, Mycroft took a lingering look at the man. 

_Bruises on neck/ collar: Fading._

_Cheeks hollow: From starving himself so much._

_Dark circles under eyes: Worsening._

_Eyelids fluttering: REM cycle._

_Slightly quickened breathing and heart rate._

_Tense yet slightly relaxed muscles._

_Probably dreaming about John._

_Fresh clothing: Mycroft had laid it out for him earlier that morning._

Turning to the double doors, Mycroft walked towards their Mother. She was standing outside the door with a dressing gown clutched around her body and a worried expression on her tired face.

“How is he?” She asked Mycroft in a whisper. He closed the doors behind himself and looked down at her, holding up the science journal for her to see. 

“Fine. Better. He’s occupying himself with something… at least. It’s best to still give him space, Mummy. He’s not keen on attention…” 

His mother looked from the journal, back to him and gave him a small reassured smile. The creases around her eyes had become more dominant over the years, her hair was already completely white. Years of illness and stress had aged her beyond her years, and Mycroft wished that there was something he could do to help her. 

They walked back down the hallway in silence, Mycroft escorted her to her own bedroom on the floor above. Kissing her goodnight on the forehead, she patted him on the shoulder and closed the door. All the weight from her suffering seemed to settle onto Mycroft’s shoulders, his kind grin turned into a scowl as he crossed the hallway to his own childhood room. He passed Sherlock’s old room as if it held a ghost, a shiver crawled down his spine as he passed the abandoned space. For the time being, Sherlock was to be staying in the guest room, but as soon as he was ready, Mycroft would have to take him to the bedroom of his childhood. It would serve as a bitter reminder of past failures and bad decisions, but it had to be done. Sherlock needed something to boost his dwindling confidence, something to remind him that he needed his old life back. 

_His life at 221B Baker Street._

There was new decisions to be made, more to accomplish. And within a month’s time, Sherlock would be receiving a very… unexpected visitor. 


	5. The First Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That even though Sherlock was gone, never to return, he still couldn’t choose to keep Mary.
> 
> ...

“So, how’s Mary? You both already sorted at the flat?” Greg Lestrade laid down two coffees before John. They hadn’t talked to or seen each other for more than a year already. It was a typical rainy day in early October, they decided to meet up at the Criterion to catch up and try to renew the friendship they lost a little over a year ago. 

John picked up his coffee and took a sip, “Mary’s fine, she goes between the two places. She usually stays at her place during the week, it’s closer to her job that way. She comes over to stay at Baker Street on weekends.”

John licked his lips and looked out the window for a moment, anxious. For the past few weeks, Mycroft hadn’t answered any of his calls or texts. Being out of the flat had made John nervous, for Mary’s safety and his own. Mycroft Holmes had made himself very clear when he told John to break off the relationship with Mary, and John didn’t listen. If anything, John had made everything potentially worse.

“John! Hey, mate! Over here!” John felt his eyes come back into focus, Greg was still sitting in front of him, but he looked a little exasperated and frustrated. John realized that Greg had still been talking to him, but he hadn’t heard a single word.

“Sorry, Greg… I’ve just been a little destracted lately. It… hasn’t been easy.” John tried to smile but it was weak and forced, an expression that he’d had to fake quite a bit since Sherlock’s death. 

A look of apology washed over Lestrade and he offered John a sincere smile, encouraging. “Sorry, mate. I can’t imagine what it must be like… did you… want to talk about it?” Greg had never been a very nurturing person, it wasn’t a part of his charm. In situations like this, Greg usually clammed up and got a bit edgy. John had seen him around the families and friends of murder victims, giving the unfortunate news. This was different, this was friend to friend, Greg to John, but it was still awkward and robotic. 

John spared him, “No, it’s… fine. I just… have a lot to think about.”

Greg took a sip of his own coffee and changed the subject, they were both relieved, “I got my old office back at Scotland Yard, same crew too. I’m not sure how it all happened, but it did. Thought I was a goner for sure.”

Fiddling with the plastic top of his coffee cup, John’s brow furrowed. He remembered back to reading the article in the news with Mary, the article about Lestrade going back to Scotland Yard. Lestrade wasn’t the only one surprised that he had gotten his job back, everyone was surprised. What kind of connections could have sorted everything out? Lestrade had let Sherlock Holmes work with Scotland Yard on some very large and serious cases, and after Sherlock had been suspected of murder _himself_ , everyone would have thought that Greg would remain a marked man, someone who no-one would hire. Yet somehow, Lestrade was back to being Scotland Yard’s Detective Inspector with no penalties or faults. 

_Could it have been Mycroft?_

_Possibly._

“Anyways, John. I was wondering, and don’t take this the wrong way… if you would want to start working on a few cases again? I’ve gotten the agreement with my boss, so there wouldn’t be any trouble this time. I know that it’s going to be… different. But we really do value your opinion in the cases.” Greg smiled and took another sip, looking at John with eagerness.

John bit his lip, “Maybe… I don’t know. I think I’d like a little more time. I have more hours at the clinic now, there’s still a lot to get sorted…”

“I understand, John. I just wanted you to know that the offer is there.”

“Thanks, Greg. I’ll let you know if I need anything. As it is… there’s been some odd stuff happening lately.” John inhaled and looked up at Lestrade, “ Actually, I was wondering if you could help me with that…”

 

John told Lestrade about strange occurrences, starting with Mycroft’s odd and sudden silence and ending with being watched by strangers in public places. When John moved back to Baker Street a few months prior, he began to feel a sense of dread that was definitely not linked to mourning Sherlock. This was different, and it felt… dangerous. John would look out the window of the flat to see someone across the road, watching him with narrowed eyes and seriousness in their composure. Sometimes John would be walking to the clinic or coming home from the grocery store to see someone following him. The strangers were similar in appearance, tall and bulky, face hidden behind a newspaper or coat collar, leather jackets and black jeans, and a briefcase under the left arm. It wasn’t the same person every time, and there was always something slightly different with each one’s appearance. On a couple occasions, even Mary had become nervous when she noticed someone following her, same characteristics and everything. 

John described it all to Lestrade and he wrote it down on a small notepad. Lestrade assured him that they would keep an eye out and update John with any of the Yard’s findings. After leaving the Criterion, John took a taxi back to Baker Street, watching every person who passed while he sat in the backseat. 

 

After unlocking the front door and going up the stairs, he pulled his buzzing cell phone from his pocket and opened the door to the sitting room. He wasn’t prepared for the visitor standing with their back to him and looking out the window onto the street below. John must have missed the black car in front of the flat, which was strange considering he thought he had been aware of his surroundings.

“Mycroft?” He said, checking his phone for the new message that appeared on the screen.

_Upstairs. M_

Mycroft turned toward John with a disinterested expression. His hands were behind his back and he looked back at John with striking presence. John almost wanted to shrink away from the man’s observing eyes, but he stood his ground, ready to ask questions.

“How are you, John?” He asked as he raised his nose in the air, dissatisfaction was written all over his appearance now. He probably deduced everything about John in a matter of two seconds. He’d already know about John’s coffee with Lestrade, he’d know that John had had a restless sleep the night before, he’d know the John had questions, he’d know that John hadn’t broken off his relationship with Mary.

“I’m fine. You already know that though, so what do you want?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed with concentration and seriousness. “To warn you.”

“Warn me about what?” John shrugged his shoulders and folded his arms over his chest, “That I’m in danger? That I’m being watched? That Moriarty still has his bloodthirsty eyes all over me? I already know, Mycroft. I’m not an idiot.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything, he was going to let John finish his rant.

“Oh yeah, and I _forgot_. You want me to leave Mary too. You already _told_ me to and I didn’t bloody-listen. Why, Mycroft? Why!”

John’s heart was racing now, he looked up at Mycroft with loathing, complete hatred of the man. Mycroft moved towards the armchairs and sat in Sherlock’s old seat.

“Sit down, John.” He folded his hands and waited for John to comply. Moving robotically, John sat in his own armchair opposite Mycroft, rigid in his seat. Mycroft seemed rather relaxed in comparison, “Yes, you’re quite right, John. But not on all accounts.”

John looked back at Mycroft and waited for an explanation, waited for that sick and cruel grin to appear on Mycroft’s face as he told John how he was wrong, how he’s always wrong.

“I’d like to ask you to leave you’re questions for when I’m finished. There’s much for me to say and very little time for me to chat before I move on to other engagements.” John nodded and waited. “First, I’d like to inform you that you are indeed correct on most accounts. Yes, you are being watched by Moriarty’s web, and yes, you are in danger.” Here came the sick grin of his, “And yes, you didn’t listen to me when I told you to leave Miss Morstan alone. Which is a very bad move, I must say…”

John wasn’t surprised, but still unclear of which part he was wrong about. He waited for Mycroft to continue. It amazed him, the time that it took the bloody man to get the words out since he had “limited time”.

“It is my job to inform you today, that Moriarty is indeed dead. It is not my place to tell you how or when he died, but I can tell you that he is most certainly dead. He is no longer of your concern, but as I mentioned before, it doesn’t mean that you are out of trouble. Moriarty had many employees, people who he trusted with carrying out his left-over occupations in the event of his death. Those employees, as you probably already know, are the people who have been watching your movements since you came back to Baker Street. 

“As you recall, I was very vague in the last conversation we had. I implied that braking off your relationship with Miss Morstan would be best. I also implied that moving back to Baker Street would not be the wisest of ideas. And as we can both see, you ignored both suggestions. This is possibly why you are in even more danger _now_ than you were before. Moving back here has caused some unwanted and unneeded attention. Of course, I still have my own security watching out for you and the woman, but it has become increasingly difficult. 

“This is why I come to you today. I offer you another warning, another chance to ease your nerves. You have deliberately put yourself and Miss Morstan in danger. I suggest that you take my warning in consideration. You may enjoy the battlefield that surrounds you… but I doubt that it’s fair to bring Miss Morstan into this.”

John didn’t know what to say. As soon as Mycroft had said that Moriarty was dead, he felt numb, almost lightheaded. Somehow the news did not ease John’s mind in the slightest. Mycroft sounded like a broken record after that, restating the past suggestions about Mary. More than anything, John wanted to find a reason to keep Mary, make her stay. But his heart began to fall when he realized that Mycroft was right, he couldn’t put the woman that he loved in danger. 

_Just as he put Sherlock in danger._

He finally opened his mouth, words feeling too dry on his tongue, “The assassins… The papers you gave me. You told me that they were watching Sherlock, that they were out to get him. Two ended up dying when they saved him. But what about the other two? From the files you gave me? What about them?”

Mycroft sat in silence, tight-lipped. John felt even more worry wash over him, he was on the edge in his seat. He wanted to beat the information out of Mycroft, he wanted to _know_.

“The files, Mycroft. You gave them to me. They’re on that desk.” John stood up to get the files, he felt so pale and sick that he wanted to vomit. He moved towards the desk by the window and started shifting through the mess of papers. 

“John, they’re not there. Those files? They disappeared last week while you were sleeping. We have surveillance. A dark figure entered this room at three in the morning and removed the files from the desk. One of my government agents followed the intruder but we never retrieved the files. Nor do I have another record on them. I’m sorry, John.”

Turning from the desk to face Mycroft, John balled his fists at his sides, his fingernails began to dig into the soft flesh of his palms. He groped the desk behind him with his left hand, trying to steady himself. Half a second later, he was pacing back and forth, his fingers gripping his hair as he tried to remember the information from the files.

“There was a man and a woman left… the last two assassins… the Russian woman, a killer…” Mycroft’s eyes followed him as he paced. “What was the woman’s name? She moved across the street, the flat across the street… Russian name… Lumia? No… Ludia?… No, what was her last name?… Something with a “D”, it ended with an “o”…” John grunted, racking his brain for answers, anything that he could remember. 

“There was a man… what was his name? The man… Moran?”

“John… Very soon after Sherlock’s… death, the remaining assassins vanished. The two that saved Sherlock on separate occasions are believe to be double-agents or working to protect him from the other two. We think that it was the other two assassins, the Russian killer and the unknown man, that killed the protectors. Those two are the ones we had the least information on, inconveniently. The flat across the street has been vacant more than a year now, no sign of the woman.

“At this point in time, I’d kindly ask you to leave this to me. It’s believed that Moriarty was much more prepared than we believed him to be in these circumstances. You have been warned about the dangers that may cross your path, and endanger Miss Morstan.” Mycroft stood from the armchair and John stopped pacing, he bit his lip and watched Mycroft with furious anger in his eyes, “I hope that you take that into consideration as the potential for further trouble becomes more prominent. At this point in time, I’d kindly ask you to break your connections to the woman and stay out of trouble. Leave the research to my team, you’ve dealt with enough in the past year alone. If you try to look for the assassins … I fear that you might make things much worse. And if that happens… I can’t ensure you’re safety in any way whatsoever.”

John looked at the ground and heard Mycroft walk past him to the door. After listening to each of his footsteps on the wooden stairs to the main floor, he heard the door open and close, a car drove away.

Collapsing in his armchair again, John clutched the fabric under his palms and watched the seat across from him. 

_Sherlock’s armchair._

He felt his breathing begin to speed up, he was numb and shivering. Silence was everywhere except for the shallow sounds of his inhaling and exhaling. John closed his eyes and leaned back, trying to focus, to wrap his mind around everything that had just happened.

_John had wanted Mycroft to explain._

_And Mycroft did._

Now John would have to follow what he was told. He’d have to stop searching, stop looking for answers. John would have to leave Mary, the only woman who he could really care about, the only woman who could really understand him… 

He looked back from the armchair, his eyes wandering towards the hallway to Sherlock’s room. The door was closed, inviting… yet uninviting all the same. He wanted to go inside, he wanted to be flooded by memories. To run his hands over the long coat, no longer stained with Sherlock’s blood. To lie down on the cold sheets that hadn’t been warm in over a year. To re-sort the sock index the way that Sherlock liked best.  

Already, John was beginning to forget what the violin sounded like, he was forgetting the colour of Sherlock’s eyes, the sound of his laugh… 

John remembered back to the beginning of his relationship with Mary. He thought about what he would have chosen, had things been different… 

_Would he have chosen Sherlock over Mary?_

He didn’t even have to really think about it. He knew the answer: _yes_. It pained him to realize the truth. That even though Sherlock was gone, never to return, he still couldn’t choose to keep Mary.

_The only other person whom he had ever loved..._

_Now he would have to be completely alone._

_Again._


	6. The Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let’s have dinner.
> 
> Could be hungry. 
> 
> ...

Sherlock woke up after a restless sleep, he was eager to see dawn through the window. But it wasn’t over, darkness still covered every surface, only the faint glow of moonlight . So far, it had been a night full of nightmares, of wants, fears, and madness. He’d dreamed of blood, pain, bullets,weakness, tears, lips, warmth, want, lust, _John_. 

Too many times he awoke with a film of sweat over the surface of his skin and pain in his chest. It was raining, there was thunder and lightning. The longing had become too much, Sherlock couldn’t escape the _sentiment_ , the emotions that were beginning to rule him. 

_There was something he needed to do._

_He wouldn’t tell Mycroft._

_He wouldn’t tell Mummy._

_It would be like the first time, years ago._

_But this time… as much as he didn’t want to…_

_He’d come back home._

_He couldn’t run away any longer._

_From his past._

_From his family._

_From his emotions._

_From himself._

He dressed into dark clothes, something that would blend into the darkness around him when he left the house. He opened the window, feeling cold late September air rush over his face. He clutched at the brick as he climbed to the ground. He’d have to be quiet, careful, he wasn’t allowed to let sentiment control him once he entered 221B. This wasn’t just a visit, to see John. This was also a mission, to get back information that would assist him in finding the next assassins. John had files that Mycroft had given him, the files had been on the four different assassins located on Baker Street. They were thought to be stalking Sherlock, waiting for their moment to get the best shot and pull the trigger.

 

After two long cab rides, Sherlock had found his way back to the old flat, 221B Baker Street. His heart was already beating like mad, despite the cold, he felt a film of fresh cold sweat on his forehead. Walking into the back alleyway, he climbed up the wall towards the kitchen window. He’d done this before, hed noticed _The Woman_ also use this route. When he got to the window, he clutched onto the wall with one hand and unclasped the lock on the window with his other hand. He was careful to not fall from the ledge, sliding the window open, he climbed in. 

Sherlock wasn’t the best at stealth, but he was good enough to not wake John. Considering that John was trained in the military to be woken by the smallest noise, Sherlock had escaped in the night or come up the stairs to John’s room numerous times without making the army doctor stir. 

Carefully stepping into the kitchen, Sherlock listened to the silence. The only sound that he could hear was a dog barking down the street, otherwise, the night was silent as the dead. Without another delay, Sherlock walked into the sitting room, he could clearly see the files on top of John’s computer. Moonlight cascaded from the window and made it easy to see his surroundings. Sliding the files into his coat, he looked around him. 

_The flat hadn’t changed…_

_At all._

_Everything was still in it’s place._

_It was… unnerving…_

_But also meaningful, heartwarming._

Sherlock felt a stirring in his chest, it was familiar by now, but he still couldn’t understand the exact meaning of it. With careful steps, he walked towards the hallway, seeing the unopened door to his old bedroom, abandoned. Sherlock missed this place, he would only have this one night of peace before going back. But if anything, seeing this flat again was the biggest motivator that he had to finish this. 

_He had to come back._

_To John._

Without hesitation, Sherlock started to carefully make his way up the stairs to John’s bedroom. Sherlock didn’t go up there often while they were living together, it was only to wake John up for a case, or to ask a question. He never went up there to look in on John, watch him in that peaceful state of sleep. 

_There had always been a reason._

_But…_

_This could be a reason too, right?_

Sherlock felt breathing become difficult, he made it to the top of the stairs and saw the slightly open doorway. He could almost feel himself become more… whole. It was a strange feeling, it defied biology, nature, science. 

_It was like myth becoming reality._

He touched the door with the pads of his fingers and gently push it open. 

_Heart beating fast._

_Face flushed._

_Pupils dilated._

_Shaky breath._

_Oxygen._

_John._

_Oxygen._

_John…_

Sherlock looked at the sleeping form of his friend, his only friend. Immediately, he felt like collapsing at John’s side, holding him, crying against him. Sentiment had never controlled him this much, ever. Not even in childhood. Maintaining enough control of his body, Sherlock stood over the bed, looking down at the weary and restless face of John Watson.

_Mary wasn’t here tonight._

_John was alone._

Sherlock was relieved that Mary Morstan wasn’t here tonight, it would have pained him to see John holding the woman in his arms. Sherlock wouldn’t have stayed a little longer, he would have left immediately. But that was not the case tonight.

_John was so close._

_Just beside him._

_Living._

_Breathing._

_John._

If anything, this was making it more difficult for Sherlock to leave, to go back to his temporary home. Sherlock curled his hands into fists as his sides. More than anything, he wanted to climb into bed beside John, just to be with him, to feel his warmth, his closeness. More than anything in the world, Sherlock just wanted to _stay_.

His body let down one little defence against sentiment. A tear rolled down his face, just one tear.

_And it was enough._

_This was it._

Leaning down, Sherlock put his right palm against John’s chest, just over his steady beating heart. Sherlock could feel the rhyme, the movement under his hand. It was comforting. 

_A living, breathing heart._

_A hollow muscular organ._

_Pumping blood through the circulatory system._

_Often regarded as the centre of a person’s thoughts and emotions._

_John’s heart._

_A heart that Sherlock could love._

_A heart that just might love Sherlock back…_

Sherlock wanted to plant a light kiss to John’s forehead, he wanted to feel the warmth of John’s skin against his lips. He wanted to wake John up, reveal himself, show John that he’s alive. 

_But it couldn’t happen._

_Not yet._

_There was more to do._

_It wasn’t safe._

_He shouldn’t be here._

Quickly taking his hands from John’s chest, Sherlock strode away from the man and closed the door. 

_He had to go back._

_He had the files now._

_It was time to go back._

 

After climbing the side of his childhood home and into the open window, Sherlock padded back into the bedroom, still dripping from the rain. Immediately, he noticed that something was… off. Narrowing his eyes, he carefully walked towards the rumpled sheets on his bed and noticed his phone. The screen was lit up with a new text message, an alert would have sounded moments ago, his eyes widened and his heart rate began to soar.

_Another text from John?_

_It hadn’t been months since the last one._

_Could John possibly have heard him in the house?_

_Had he seen Sherlock, felt his presence?_

Sherlock didn’t know where his phone had come from, he hadn’t thought about it since the night he killed the first assassin. Someone had put it here while he was at Baker Street… Someone could _still_ be here.

The text alert sounded, something that he hadn’t heard in a long time. Something that he thought he’d never hear again. He picked up the phone and looked at the caller ID, even though he already knew who it was. His heart dropped in his chest when his suspicions were confirmed.

**_The Woman_ **

_Irene Adler._

Sherlock opened up the two new messages that flashed on the screen. 

_Let’s have dinner._

_Could be hungry._

Sherlock lowered the phone and stood incredibly still and silent. He couldn’t hear anything else in the room, no movement or breathing whatsoever. After a moment, he saw a movement from behind a dark corner to his right. Someone stepped out of the shadow, and moved into a small sliver of moonlight from the window. 

“Tell him you’re alive,” she spoke in a whisper, difficult to hear, but full of demand and sentiment.

_Ha._

_Sentiment._

“He’d come after me,” Sherlock replied clearly, his voice didn’t waver, even though he could feel his foundations breaking down around him. Focusing on his breathing, he glared at the figure of Irene Adler. He hadn’t seen her since her escape from terrorists in Karachi. Last he’d heard, she was in America under a new identity. But now, she was standing before him, she hadn’t changed in the least. 

Taking a couple steps toward Sherlock, her eyes were as clear and hard as stone, persistent. “I’ll come after you if you don’t.”

Sherlock bit onto the inside of his lip, he tried to think of words to say, something to convince him that he couldn’t tell John. 

_But he wanted to._

_Even the Woman wanted him to._

_He would… if he could…_

_He would have told John a long time ago._

_He would have woken John up earlier tonight, told him everything._

_In fact, he wouldn’t have even done this to John in the first place._

_But he had to._

_It was the only way._

_He couldn’t tell John yet._

_He couldn’t reveal himself until the time was right._

_Irene had to understand._

_He had to make her understand._

“I… can’t. I can’t do that.” Sherlock clenched his hands into fists, trying to control the stupid emotions and reactions of his body. All of the anger in Irene’s face seemed to disappear, it was if she had read his mind.

She reached up a gloved hand and touched Sherlock’s face, smoothing her hand along his left cheek. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to let go of all the sensations running through him.

“You love him. You’ve always love him.” Irene spoke like a gentle mother caressing her child. “Why didn’t you ever tell him?”

Sherlock willed his eyes to open again, he tried to summon all the strength he had, but it didn’t seem to be enough. That restless night had left him weak and powerless, the perfect state for the Woman to scold him, hurt him, beat him.

“What was there to tell?” Sherlock scowled, stepping away from Irene’s touch. She stayed where she was, her hand still outstretched. She stood, tight lipped and frustrated. Sherlock hadn’t the faintest idea that she would care so much.

“Why do you care?” Sherlock asked another question, still waiting for a response, anything. The silence was making him go insane, he wanted to shake the words out of her mouth, he wanted her to say everything that she was too afraid to say.

_“Why didn’t you die for him then?_

_Really die?_

_You’re a freak._

_You’re a coward.”_

Would she really be thinking those questions and accusations? Or were those just the things that Sherlock thought of himself, chastised himself for. Was that why he had gone back to using serious and harmful drugs? Was that why he tormented himself in a lonely basement? Was that why he couldn’t look at his reflection anymore?

“I care…” Irene began, looking away from Sherlock, “Because I know what he means to you.” She looked back up at him, there was a renewed strength behind her eyes, but not a punishment, it was encouragement. 

“I saw the way that you looked at him, talked to him, cared for him.” She straightened her posture and put her hands on her hips. “And then I saw the way that he looked at you… the things he did for you.”

Sherlock felt uncomfortable, he found himself searching for memories, anything to help him see what she had seen. 

“You were there, that day… When I revealed that I was alive, to Dr. Watson.” She stepped forward, trying to capture Sherlock gaze, “You heard what he said. What he _really_ said… He loves you.”

Sherlock heard the words, but still didn’t want to believe any of it. Phrases went through his mind, things that John had said. John had been so caught up in appearances, in clarifying where he stood with Sherlock. The definitions of their relationship, defending himself. And Sherlock had never said anything, he’d never protested or suggested that John was wrong. The quiet child inside him told him to never rock the boat, to keep his thoughts and wishes to himself. That it was better this way, staying away from sentiment, commitment, _love_.

“I can’t have him,” Sherlock whispered weakly, feeling more vulnerable in that moment than he had ever felt. Irene look into his eyes and put both her hands to either side of his face,

“You’re wrong.” She smoothed away a single tear from under his eye, “You can have him. And you _will_ have him.”

With every breath that Sherlock took, one word formed in his mind over and over again. It was a blinding force, something that could make him do anything. 

_John._

“I need…” Sherlock began, clearing his throat, “I need to finish off Moriarty’s web first. I need to get John out of danger.”

“I can assist you there, Mr. Holmes,” Irene said with a smirk. She released his face and folded her arms over her chest. 

Sherlock scowled again, “But I thought you were working for Moriarty. You could _never_ help me. I don’t _need_ your help.”

“Ah, but you _do_.” She stepped away from him, turning her back to him and looking out the window, “Besides, my work for Moriarty is finished. It was a boring game to play, but to be fair… I only played for the perks. I’ve never remained on one side, Sherlock. I’m quite open-minded. And I’m ready to play another game. So,” Irene turned and walked toward him in seconds, he could feel the warmth of her body so close to him. Sherlock was frozen, too stiff to move away from her. Irene breathed onto his face, her lips parting sensually, “Let’s have dinner.”


	7. The Calm Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sooner rather than later.
> 
> He’d have to leave her.
> 
> It was for her own good.
> 
> ...

John stood by the window in the sitting room, he felt restless and anxious. His phone was in his hand, ready for a call. He looked out onto the lazy street, melted snow and grime made each passing car noisy. But every car that passed 221B was not Mary. 

_It was friday night._

_Mary always came over on friday nights._

_But tonight…_

_She hadn’t come._

_At least, not yet._

_Maybe…_

John looked down at his cell phone, he checked for missed calls or unread messages. Sitting down in the chair at his desk, he put the phone down and laid his head in his hands. He practiced breathing, tried to hold himself together.

_Mary had been late before._

_Maybe she had a staff meeting, or an after-school study session._

_But…_

_Maybe something was wrong._

_Maybe she was in danger._

John rubbed his hands over his face and into his hair, he closed his eyes, listening to his own shaky inhales and exhales. He could still hear cars passing by outside, he could still hear the clock ticking away on the kitchen wall… but Mary should be here.

_Guilt._

_Anger._

_Worry._

_John was to blame._

_For everything._

_For Sherlock._

_For Mary._

_And now he was alone._

There was a sudden noise from the hallway downstairs, John’s eyes shot open and he jumped from his seat. “Mary?” he called out, trying to chase the worry and frustration out of his voice. Standing at the railing above the landing, he looked down to see the familiar figure of Mary. 

Her hair was damp, her face was flushed, and she looked better than ever. John felt warm relief, replacing the chill of fear and anxiety. Mary looked up to see John staring at her. An easy smile was on her face, but as soon as she looked John over, her expression changed to worry, mirroring John’s earlier expression.

“Are you alright, love?” She called up to him, taking off her jacket. John just stared at her, frozen in place. Mary was very good at reading emotions, he knew that, so there wasn’t any point in trying to hide his worries any longer.

“Why are you so late? I thought you’d be here a couple hours ago. I made tea,” John gestured to the upstairs kitchen, weakly. Mary walked towards him, taking quick steps up the stairs to meet him. 

Reaching for his hand, she intertwining their fingers together. “Staff meeting, it was unplanned so I couldn’t warn you ahead of time. Sorry about that, I should have at least called you.”

“It’s alright, Mary, I just worried about you in this weather. You look like you could really use a tea though… cuppa?” John offered a smile, trying to let go of the reoccurring feeling of dread. Mary murmured in agreement and kissed him on the cheek. 

 

After making fresh tea, they sat in silence on the sofa for awhile. The fireplace lit the dim room and crackled with sparks. Mary had her legs curled up next to John’s, her arms were around his shoulders. John smoothed his fingers through her hair still distracted with thoughts and worries.

_He had to tell her._

_At some point._

_Sooner rather than later._

_He’d have to leave her._

_It was for her own good._

_He couldn’t be selfish._

“John?” Her voice was quiet, gentle, _a warning_. John turned to look at her, their noses almost touching. Mary licked her lips, opened her mouth and then closed it again. It was obvious that she had something on her mind, something that she wanted to talk about, and from the look in her eyes… it didn’t look like it would be a cheerful topic.

John didn’t know if he should reassure her, tell her to say whatever she needed to say, that he’d be understanding and open to her words. But he knew that it could become a trap, that he might not what to hear what she had to say.

_Some things are best left unsaid._

_Like John’s final words to Sherlock._

_Things that he would have never said._

_Things that Sherlock wouldn’t have understood._

_Things that John didn’t understand, himself…_

Mary was still silent, her eyes were downcast and ashamed. John waited patiently, he could already begin to feel his face colour with awkwardness and anxiety. He hoped that she wouldn’t notice.

He heard a sudden intake of breath and looked back at Mary, guarding his emotions. She looked back up at him again, more ready this time. “Did you ever _love_ him?”

Mary didn’t have to clarify who she was talking about, it was obvious. But John was unprepared for this question, he didn’t know how to respond or react. His heart rate began to quicken and he looked away from Mary. His eyes turned toward the fireplace, the glare from it’s brightness was beginning to make his eyes sore. 

_Did he ever love Sherlock?_

_Yes._

_No._

_Maybe…_

He felt Mary squeeze his hand in her own, it was reassurance, understanding.  Mary would probably know if he loved Sherlock before the thought ever crossed his own mind. As it was, Irene Adler obviously had known it. Almost everyone had seen it, John was just too ignorant and afraid to acknowledge it. 

_He couldn’t lie to himself._

_The thought… the possibility wasn’t new to him._

_He’d thought about it before._

_It felt like years ago, but John felt like he had always loved the mad genius._

_It was something he couldn’t control._

_True emotion, sentiment, was uncontrollable._

_It seemed that the only person with control over sentiment was Sherlock._

_John wasn’t like that._

_His feelings always controlled him._

_He just hadn’t let anyone know, or at least he tried…_

_It was impossible to hide anything to Sherlock._

_Again, John was plagued with an idea:_

_Did Sherlock know how much John loved him?_

_Did he have similar feelings?_

“John,” Mary kissed his cheek, bringing him back to the present, here and now. This wasn’t the time for petty memories, looking for clues and trying to deduce Sherlock’s and his own behaviour from the past. 

“Yes,” John said weakly. It was a reply to the question, and Mary knew it. Immediately, she held onto him tighter, comforting him. She wasn’t angry, of course not. 

_This was why Mary was so special, so important._

_She understood._

_Everything._

_Even John and his deepest worries and emotions._

_She understood…_

John responded to her comforting embrace, his hugged her back. Kissing her on the forehead, he managed a small smile. He wanted to tell her about everything, all his worries and thoughts, all the dark corners that lingered in his mind. Maybe if she knew everything, he’d feel like he wasn’t hiding from her anymore. But at the same time, he didn’t want his faults to be the reason she left. 

_But in the end, she’d have to leave._

_There was no longer a chance for a future between them._

_Maybe after all the Moriarty stuff got sorted…_

_If... it got sorted._

 

The rest of the weekend spent together was just like any other weekend, yet it felt different this time. John wasn’t sure if Mary could sense it too, but there was an impending fear that everything was going to end soon. Her reserved expressions made it seem that she was afraid the slightest touch might shatter their relationship into a million pieces, an unsolvable puzzle. Something that neither of them would ever have the chance to put back together. It was the calm before the storm, grey clouds that were drifting steadily towards them, ready to consume whatever happiness and light was left in what they had. Prolonging the pain wasn’t going to make it any less of a downfall. 

 

On sunday evening, Mary picked up her overnight bad and looked back at John. He had his arms folded over his chest, as he leaned against the wall by the main door. After giving him a warm hug and a kiss, John watched Mary open the door and walk out to the waiting cab. 

John stood in the threshold, and watched the cab fade out of view at the end of the street. He felt the light rain of his face, a cool wild was blowing into the open doorway. After a brief shiver, John stepped back into the flat and closed the door. As he went back up the stairs to the sitting room, he thought about what he would tell Mary. No matter how hard he tried to piece together words, he couldn’t think of a good enough reason to leave her.

_Danger perhaps?_

_The threat that their lives were in danger?_

_No, that wasn’t good enough._

_John was prepared to end Moriarty’s web in any way possible._

_Anything to keep Mary safe._

_He’d do anything, risk anything._

_To keep Mary…_


	8. The Guardian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since he’d come back to this place, his mother had tried to be there, in her own small way. She was a guardian, hidden from sight but not of mind.
> 
> ...

By early spring, Sherlock had formed a pile of science journals on astronomy, it was his only other way to pass the time when he wasn’t working on research for the second major assassin. 

Mycroft came by every now and then to give Sherlock new information. He told him about Lestrade getting his job back, about suspicious agents stalking John and Mary, and a mysterious person who had taken John’s files from the flat one night. He felt slight panic run through him, hoping that Mycroft wouldn’t know that it was him who had gone for those files. Sherlock pretended to be disinterested in everyone’s progress, but if Mycroft forgot to mention anything for nearly a week, Sherlock would shamefully ask, as if it was hurting his ego to want to know about his only friends. 

Stacks of files began to dominate the guest bedroom that Sherlock slept in. In all this time, Sherlock still hadn’t explored the other rooms in their childhood home. He never grew curious about his old bedroom, or the play room, or the garden outside where he collected small insects. He had the guest bedroom, a bathroom, and the library, all of which suited him fine. He thrived away from human contact, and he no longer turned to harmful drugs in order to seek release. It relieved Mycroft and their mother to see him improve a little. 

 

Sometimes, their mother would walk by the library to get a peek at her youngest son. Every time she lingered at the doorway, she ached to say something, to tear him away from all the science books so that she could have a proper conversation with her estranged son. Sometimes she still saw the little boy, curled up on the armchair with a large hardcover book in his arms, curly dark locks in his face, constantly pushing the hair from before his eyes. She could still hear his little voice, complaining about his unruly hair. She longed to look into his clear ever-changing eyes, to see how they’ve aged since. She wanted to know how he was doing, his hopes and dreams.

Mrs. Holmes had always wanted the best for her boys. Growing up with an ignorant father and a distant mother had not been good for them. She knew that, and she would never forgive herself for that. Seeing the way that Sherlock had grown to push people away, to become afraid of love and commitment, had scared her.

When Mycroft had told her about John Watson, a little more than a couple years ago, she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Mycroft told her about John’s history, his personality, his affect on Sherlock’s behaviour. She’d always wanted Sherlock to have a friend, and John seemed like the best thing that had come into his life. 

Looking at her son, relearning astronomy for John, had made it difficult for her to resist talking to him, comforting him, being _there_ for him. It couldn’t be too late to start a relationship with her son, but she knew that he would only push her away. There was no undoing of the damage, no possible way for Sherlock to recover from what had happened many years past.

 

Sherlock always noticed his mother’s silent glances. It was true that he was unobservant of the most obvious things, but feeling his mother’s close proximity was not something he could ignore. Of course he wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t make any sign of noticing her presence. 

_There was nothing to be said._

_Nothing that could persuade him to want a relationship with his mum._

One dreary evening, he noted the date as he was looking up from files and notes. Scraps of papers littered his desk, but through all the chaos, his eyes lingered on the little calendar. 

_Early March._

_In June it would be the second anniversary of his “death”._

_Almost two full years of hiding, chasing, searching, longing._

_Only two more assassins to kill._

_Close to finding one._

_Mrs. Hudson’s assassin._

_Only a small file on the other assassin._

_The last assassin._

_John’s assassin._

Sherlock heaved a long exhale and looked back down at the disorganized desk space. It reminded him of the basement room that he had stayed in during the first year. 

_Small, cramped, chaotic._

He remembered back to the many meaningless struggles and breakdowns. The thrill of cocaine, the need for air, for company. All of that was gone now, he had overcome his addiction, he was back in the mansion home of his childhood with Mycroft and his mother.

_But it wasn’t what he wanted._

_What he needed._

_And what he needed was Baker Street._

All the files and notes started to mesh together in his mind, become unreadable. Numbers and words collided and created new problems to solve.

_8_

_Oxygen_

_Bach_

_Revenge_

Codes and riddles, everything had a place in the equation, but Sherlock couldn’t figure it out. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, tried to look at each word separately. He thought about the small file from his old flat, the files that Mycroft had given John about the assassins living on their street.

_One name stood out._

_One name with very little information._

_Moran._

The mysterious name began to repeat in his brain, coaxing him to figure it out. Who could Moran be? Where was he hiding?

_Nothing._

_He tried to breath, inhale and exhale._

_Oxygen._

_John._

Pressing his fingers to his eyes, he snarled under his breath and stood from the desk. The chair made a loud grinding sound against the floorboards. A shiver went down his spine, the noise was appalling to his ears, his head was pulsing. 

He flicked off the lamp and stumbled to his bed in the dark. With the curtains closed, there was no possible way for light to escape through the window pane. Sherlock collapsed onto the mattress, fully dressed, and willed the headache to fade. 

_Pulsing._

_Inhale._

_Pulsing._

_Exhale._

_Blink._

Curling in on himself, he clutched the bedsheets to his face and tensed every muscle. The headache continued to linger, pulsing in his forehead and making slumber difficult to achieve.

He didn’t want to take medication, he _couldn’t_ take any because Mycroft didn’t want him to be exposed to anything potentially harmful. Overdose was something that had never crossed his mind, even in the psychotic days of his youth. He had always found illegal drugs to be more useful, much more stimulating and helpful for brainwork. Sherlock was surprised that Mycroft had given him so much freedom over the past few months (following his recovery). Though he knew that it didn’t mean that Mycroft wasn’t keeping a constant watch. Sherlock knew where all of the hidden cameras were placed around the house, he couldn’t be outsmarted by his nosey older brother.

Sherlock began to notice the pain in his forehead ebb and he felt the numb state of unconsciousness begin to overwhelm him. All the tense muscles relaxed and his breathing slowed. Before he was overcome with sleep, he thought about nights back at Baker Street.

_Violin strings._

_Quiet crackle from the fireplace._

_The taste of tea still on his tongue._

_Creaking floorboards above him signalling John’s presence._

_Clock in the kitchen, ticking a steady rhythm._

_Peace._

_Calm._

_Hateful._

 

Sherlock was woken by the brief sound of the door to his room, someone was entering. He didn’t move or open his eyes, breathing steadily, he recognized the footsteps.

_His mum._

He felt a little more relaxed knowing that it wasn’t someone threatening to take his life as he slept. And though he wished that his mother wouldn’t look in on him like this, he couldn’t blame her… 

_Like most human beings, his mum was ruled by emotions._

_Sentiment._

She was trying to be careful and quiet as she made her way to his bedside, the steps were lingering, as if she was determining whether she should turn back or not.

He felt warm breath brush on the side of his face that wasn’t burrowed into his pillow. Lips warmed the skin and left the ghost of a kiss as he felt her move away only a few inches. Sherlock remained still, waiting for her to walk back out, he didn’t like keeping up the sleeping act like this, it was uncomfortable. 

Gentle fingers touched the tips of his hair, smoothing down to the back of his neck. Suppressing a shiver, he tensed under the blankets. He could feel his mother’s gaze on him, she reeked of sentiment. Sherlock tried to repel it with detachment.

_Soon, this act won’t work._

_He’d have to open his eyes and look at her._

_Or he’d have to wait for her to leave and face more guilt._

Something in his chest ached to be released, sentiment of some sort probably. This needed to be done. Carefully opening his eyes, he shifted and sat up from the bed. His mother jerked a little, surprised by his sudden movement. She obviously had’t realized that she had woken him up. 

Just as she stepped back to leave the room, Sherlock spoke. “No,” his voice rasped, “Stay”. He looked up at her, feeling like a child again, ruled by sentiment and it’s traps.

Mrs. Holmes just stood still, frozen in place beside his bed. Her short curly hair was a little messy. It had gone prematurely white since he’d last seen her. In the soft glow from the open doorway, he could make out her solemn and aged expression.

“Mum?” Sherlock spoke, being careful not to let emotion cloud his voice, “I missed you.” He had to be careful, he had to breath. His mother came to sit at the edge of his bed and pulled her arms around his shoulders, capturing him in a much needed embrace. 

Sherlock laid his forehead on her shoulder, feeling like a child again. But even as a child, he’d never received comfort from his mother like this, he had lucky to even see her, let alone hug her. Her battles with illness had kept her away from being with her boys. It was only after Sherlock left home that her health began to improve, and even then, there was no way to bring him back. 

“I missed you too,” she said against him. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock blurted out, feeling like years of absence would never make up for what he had done, but still needing to get the words out. 

His mum pulled away from the hug and looking into his eyes with concern and seriousness. She almost looked… angry.

“Don’t ever apologize, Sherlock. You never did anything wrong. I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. I’m the one who’s sorry.”  

Sherlock held onto her tighter, making up for all the years he’d needed her. He thought back to nights where he stood outside his mother’s room and wished that he could go inside and see her. He thought back to the nights where he’d wanted a friend, someone to hold onto. 

_Someone._

_Anyone._

_Thinking that he’d always be alone._

_Always solitary._

Since he’d come back to this place, his mother had tried to be there, in her own small way. She was a guardian, hidden from sight but not of mind. A physical embodiment of what religious people called “guardian angels”.

He felt a little better, knowing that she supported him, that she had always wanted to be there. It was something to keep in mind, something to help him finish off Moriarty, once and for all. Sherlock smiled. 


	9. Rache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the wall, written in dried blood was a single word. 
> 
> Rache
> 
> ...

_John was back on a crime scene._

_The asphalt cold and damp from a light rain fall._

_The wind was bitter for this time of year._

Lestrade was standing to the side with Sally, deep in conversation about the case. John looked around for any other familiar faces he could find, but alas, everyone else was a stranger. 

_Someone was missing._

_The answer to that question was easy, but he didn’t want to think of it._

_It was Sherlock…_

_Sherlock was missing._

_The mad genius and his deductions._

The wind was feeling much colder suddenly, John pulled up his coat collar to keep any remaining body warmth. He watched Greg and Sally walk into the old flat with yellow police tape circling the brink walls. The setting was familiar, but John couldn’t put a finger on the exact similarity.

Maybe Lestrade and his team wanted to revisit an unsolved case, one of the unfinished ones that had probably puzzled Sherlock in the past. Either way, it didn’t matter, though John didn’t know what use he could be on a case that even _Sherlock_ couldn’t solve.

John walked up the steps to a second floor of the flat, his limp was worse than ever. It had returned after he’d moved in with Harry, and dulled a little whenever he was with Mary Morstan… but now that he was on his own again, the limp was back with a vengeance. His leg was stiff, it made every step painful. Biting his lower lip against the strain, he put weight onto the railing and caught up to the rest of the team.

Everyone was in motion, talking around what appeared to be a corpse, a murder victim. John peered over the shoulders of his colleagues to see the body of a young man.

Though Lestrade hadn’t told John any of the information about the mysterious victim, it wasn’t difficult for him to deduce the scene before him. 

_The man’s body was pale with blood loss and death._

_The face seemed vaguely familiar, possibly a criminal from crime watch._

_A military man, sniper by the looks of it._

_Muscle tone, body type, and clothing suggested that he was middle class and out of the army for no more than four years._

_An ugly pool of blood had begun to stain the wood floor and dry up into a sticky mess._

_It had  been a day since the man was killed._

John hadn’t seen a murder in a long while, he hadn’t been on a case since the one with the missing children.

_Mercury on the candy wrappers._

_The girl’s shrill scream._

The bitterness of the cold room made John shiver, he turned from the crowded corpse and looked out the window. Directly across the street from this window was the sitting room windows at 221B Baker Street. 

For a moment, John’s heart stopped and everything was suddenly white noise. His eyes widened and he looked back down at the dead man. Beside his outstretched arm was a large metal rifle, precisely designed for long distance shooting. The man was going to shoot through this window, across the street, and into the window of the opposite building.

_In this case, John’s flat._

John turned away from the dead man and the window, he needed to clear his head, he needed to get out of here. But as soon as he looked towards the wall beside the doorway, he felt the blood leave his face.

_On the wall, written in dried blood was a single word._

**_Rache_ **

 

 

John woke up to hear a clattering on the first floor of the flat. His heart was beating out of his chest, he put his quivering hand into his sweaty hair and thought about the possible reasons for the noise.

All the possibilities that came to his mind scared him, made him fish around in his nightstand’s drawer for his handgun. Wiping his clammy palms against his pyjama pants, he gripped the gun in his left hand and plucked up the courage to seek out the intruder. 

Making as little noise as he could, he gentling descended the staircase to the second floor of the flat. His leg was more sore than ever, it pained him to take every step. Every bit of pressure that he put on his leg rattled his nerves and make him shake even more. Fear, pain, weakness all meshed together and made him doubt that he could ever win a fight against whoever forced the front door open. 

No-one was in the sitting room, kitchen, or hallway. He thought about entering Sherlock’s room, just to see if anyone could be hiding in there. But John was more overwhelmed with the fear of ever going in there, the intruder _had_ to be on the first floor.

After taking a few steps down towards the first floor, he heard a sound that made him drop the gun and race down towards the source. In the dim light, he saw the shaking figure of Mary, she stumbled over the steps on the staircase. John strode down to her and touched her on the shoulder. Taking her hands away from her face, Mary looked up at him and immediately clutched onto him, there was pale fear in her eyes.

She whimpered into his shoulder and held onto him with all her strength. John was bewildered and silent as he tried to calm Mary down. He couldn’t understand a single word that she had tried to speak, every breath she took was ragged from fear and exhaustion. It was clear that something bad had happened, she shook in his arms. A hallway light flickered on and John could hear the muffled steps of Mrs. Hudson in her slippers and nightgown. 

Mrs. Hudson was saying something, she laid a hand on John’s shoulder to get his attention, but he couldn’t hear a word she said. John looked back down at Mary and tried to calm himself down so that he could get a decent sentence out of her.

“Mary… darling, what happened?” He stroked the messy blond hair out of her face. Mary blinked up at John and tried to calm herself down. 

“I’ll get a kettle boiling,” Mrs. Hudson murmured sleepily behind them. John could hear her shuffling back into her little kitchen. 

“John…” Mary began, her breathing came out in hiccups as she played with a piece of fabric from his t-shirt. “Back home… someone broke in… they didn’t really take anything…  I think…” She sniffed in a breath and wiped her face. He looked down at her appearance and noticed that she was in her pyjamas and dressing gown. 

_How had she gotten a cab at this time of night?_

_Tuesday morning, no less._

John took her hand and led her to Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, he pulled out a chair for her and sat her down. Mrs. Hudson put milk and sugar on the table before them and offered a small smile. 

“So, someone broke in… while you were sleeping?” John offered the question, he would have to tell Lestrade about this. 

_Hopefully it had nothing to do with Moriarty’s web._

_Though, it wouldn’t surprise him at any rate._

“Yes…” Mary spoke, receiving a cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson and taking a quick sip. “I heard rustling around, and I was so afraid to go see… I didn’t know what would happen. But I had the phone with me, I was ready to call the police… When the intruder left, I looked into the rest of the house to find everything broken and torn apart. It was as if someone was looking for something, but I haven’t got a clue.”

“You did call the police though, right?” John asked her, giving her hand a squeeze. 

“Yes, I did. They’re already there. I had to come here, though. I needed to see you. I needed…” She looked up at him with concern, “I needed to make sure that you were alright.”

John felt his heart fall in his chest, looking into Mary’s eyes made him feel even worse. It hurt him to know that she cared so much, he only wished that he hadn’t put her in this danger. 

“Of course I’m fine… Why didn’t you call instead?”

“I did, but you didn’t pick up… again, I was scared that something happened to you. When I came over in the police car, I forced my key into the lock and didn’t have the strength. When I got inside, I wanted to find you.” Mary looked down at her tea, shame and frustration coloured her features. 

“It’s alright, love, we’ll sort it out. I’ll get Lestrade on it.” John tried to speak but it came out disconnected and monotone. He couldn’t find the right emotions to express.

Mrs. Hudson looked at the two of them and then put a gentle arm around Mary’s shoulder. She was usually an expert at finding the right words to say to someone. Mrs. Hudson treated Mary like her own child, just as she treated John. But in this moment, she didn’t have anything to say, and John didn’t either. 

 

When the sun rose, John called Lestrade and told him about the break-in at Mary’s house. After giving him all the information he could, Mary accompanied John back to her place. The ride in the cab was long and silent, she held onto his hand and looked out of the window on her side. 

After the long drive, they arrived at Mary’s house. A police car waited outside on the driveway, Lestrade was talking to another police officer and looking at his phone. After paying the cabbie, John took Mary to meet the Detective Inspector. 

John hadn’t wanted Greg Lestade to meet his girlfriend like this, but there wasn’t much he could do. And after today’s events, he knew that she wouldn’t be his girlfriend for much longer. It was becoming too dangerous.

Mary talked about the events of the night before, Lestade took notes and asked her questions. John put his hands in his pockets and thought back to the vivid dream he’d had last night. 

_The dream with the dead man._

_The gun._

_The window._

_The blood on the wall._

_Rache._

He tried to blink the memories of that dream away but it just didn’t seem to fade in the slightest. He wanted to believe that there was no value in it, but the more he thought about the word “rache”, the more he felt like it was his brain telling him that he wasn’t looking at the facts straight. 

_Rache._

_German for revenge._

_Revenge for what?_

“John!” He heard his own name and blinked out of his stupor, Lestrade and Mary were both looking at him with concern and frustration. “John, mate, are you listening?” Lestrade was speaking to him, making himself loud and clear. John nodded and apologized. Lestrade told him that Mycroft was on the phone for him. 

John looked down at the phone in Greg’s hand and took it, putting it up to his ear and moving alway from the others.

“Hello?” He spoke coldly, knowing that this would be Mycroft’s way of telling John that this was all his own fault. He’s tell John that he needed to break up with Mary now, before things got any worse. 

“John, as you must be well aware, I’m not calling you in regards to your health.”

John rolled his eyes and bit down an insult that he wanted to yell at Mycroft, “Yes, I know, it’s all my fault.”

There was a pause on the other side of the line, “Correct, but I also wanted to mention that this is not Inspector Lestrade’s business. Moriarty’s employees would stop at nothing to destroy his reputation, so, in light of resent events, please take my warnings into consideration. In the future, do not bring Inspector Lestrade into any personal cases. We both know that you do not want to endanger any of your close friends.”

_Now it was John’s turn to be silent._

_He didn’t know what to say._

Without hesitation, he hung up on Mycroft and walked back towards Mary and Lestrade. “What did the man want?” Lestrade asked him as he was handed back his phone. 

John hesitated and looked over at Mary, “He just wanted to know how I am. You know, it has been about two years… I guess he wanted to know how I was holding up.”

“Why didn’t he just call you on your own phone?” Lestrade questioned.

“My phone’s dead, I left it back at the flat. Speaking of which, I should probably be heading back.” John looked over at the neighbouring house, Harry’s house. He noticed that her car was not there, she’d be at work right now, thankfully. 

“I’d go over to the school, but I think I should stay here for now, right Inspector?” Mary inquired, looking over at Lestrade. 

“Yes, we’re going to need you for further questioning,” Lestrade mentioned as he started walking away with Mary. Looking back he called out, “See you later, John. We should go out for another drink some time.”

After waving Lestrade off and limping away, John called up a taxi to go back home. The weather was unseasonably cool this morning, it reminded him of the dream again. He put his hands in his coat pockets and waited at the curb. 

When a cab finally pulled up, he got in an told the cabbie his destination. Looking out the window as the cab turned away from Mary’s house, he noticed another one of those odd men standing a couple houses down. He couldn’t see the face of the shadowy figure, looking away from the window, the word “rache” repeated in his mind. 

 


	10. The Strange Musician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pulling the violin out of it’s case, he positioned it against his shoulder and chin. The action was automatic from years of practice. It was comfortable against him, an extension of his mind and body. 
> 
> ...

Sherlock stepped out of bed; it was past midnight, close to dawn. His footsteps were slow and gentle against the wooden floorboards. Mycroft and Mum would be sound asleep, this was the only time that Sherlock found he could be truly alone. Mycroft’s security systems and cameras wouldn’t find him tonight, he’d make sure to stay out of sight, undetected. 

The windows were partly open to let in a cool spring breeze. Sherlock moved into the dim hallway as he left his door partly open. The guest room door had always had a habit of creaking loudly, echoing through the vast empty halls. Looking down the dark hallway, he made his way to the one room he thought he’d never enter again.

His throat felt dry and thick when he tried to swallow down his fear. An emotion that had always interested and annoyed Sherlock, it was a part of his mind and body that he couldn’t control. He was already recognizing the familiar signs of “fear”.

_Fear._

_An unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone/ something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat._

_A feeling of anxiety concerning the outcome of something or the safety and well-being of someone._

_Avoid or put off doing something because one is afraid._

_Fear of revealing deleted memories of the past._

_Fear of remembering._

_Fear of sentiment, emotion._

_Fear of never going back, opening a door to something that should be left alone._

_Something left… abandoned._

Sherlock inhaled a shaky breath and pulled his hands into fists at his sides. The palms were damp with perspiration, an side-effect of “fear”. The nerves in his body were fragile, making every step more painful and uncomfortable.

Biting his lip and blinking at the closed door at the end of the hall, he hesitated, concentrating on the importance of this task. He wouldn’t ask for someone else to do this, Mycroft would only laugh at him, at his inability to overcome his fear of that… room. 

Before thinking about it anymore, Sherlock was standing in front of the the door.

_The room of his childhood._

_Erased from his memories with very good reason._

With care, he turned the door handle until it made a quiet _click_. Pulling the handle towards his own body, he looked into the open doorway.

As if waking from a dream, everything about this place filled his subconscious. He had remembered everything’s place, every object was in the same spot he remembered putting them many years ago. It wasn’t as bad as he had expected, in fact, he smiled fondly at the only sanctuary of his childhood. 

He stepped inside the barrier of his limitations and fears, he was back to being the Sherlock Holmes that he’d built himself to be over many years of callused emotions and separation from human thought and feeling. The weakness and dependance that had come with the past two years alone seemed to vanish. 

_He was ready to go back._

_More than ready._

With an uplifted heart, he strolled into the cold, empty space and searched for memories. He wanted to breath everything in, even the hateful memories that he’d erased. 

Somehow, the memories of this room had never quite disappeared from his mind. They had probably only been hiding somewhere in his mind-palace, somewhere he’d never bother to look.

Sherlock looked over at a familiar object leaning against the far wall. Crouching down to pick up the case, he grasped it by the handle and walked it to the side of the musty bed. He opened the case to reveal an old, well-worn and used violin. The velvet encasing the instrument had faded and fallen apart from years of use. The violin itself was dulled and scratched in places, carelessly abandoned by the reckless child he used to be.

_The child that people insisted he still was._

Pulling the violin out of it’s case, he positioned it against his shoulder and chin. The action was automatic from years of practice. It was comfortable against him, an extension of his mind and body. 

The stings were not tuned, years of abandonment made it squeak in protest. Pulling the violin away from himself, Sherlock tightened the strings until it sounded right. He played a quiet song, something familiar. It all came naturally, creating a flood of thoughts.

_The second assassin._

_Have to save Mrs. Hudson._

_Find the third assassin._

_Save John._

_Go home._

Sherlock had hoped to achieve more in the amount of time he had already been in hiding. Almost a full two years, and he still had only managed to find and kill one. Lestrade was safe now, he had his job back. But there was still Mrs. Hudson and John to save, still two assassins to find and kill. While Sherlock had used every moment for research, he still felt like he didn’t have enough. Mycroft had begun to take a lot more into his own hands, he had his own men working on Moriarty’s web. Sherlock was left with two people to find, but Mycroft had still insisted on doing most of the work for him. 

It was tiresome, to spend all these years trying to outdo each other. Childhood games and tricks had turned into sibling rivalry, and now they despised each other. 

Their mother had entrusted Mycoft with caring for Sherlock. He was the one to answer all of Sherlock’s questions, he was the one to serve him meals, clean up after him, disinfect any scrapes or cuts, occasionally, Mycroft even played pirates with him.

In the end, Sherlock would learn to blame his older brother for being too nosey and mothering. He’d never understand the importance of the role Mycroft had to play while their parents led their own distant lives. But that seemed fine with Mycroft, he didn’t mind the criticism, he’d always watch out for Sherlock. 

It was odd, to think that Sherlock had become so dependant on Mycroft, even with desperate attempts at independence, he’d always seemed to find his way back into Mycroft’s care. And Sherlock hated him for it. 

He moved away from thoughts of Mycroft and began to think of the Grimm’s Fairy Tales again. 

_The stories._

_The clues._

_Like codes._

_Small clues and codes to leave Sherlock with more questions._

_Moriarty’s final game, his final assault._

_To test how clever Sherlock really was._

Sherlock no longer cared if his violin would wake anyone else in the house, he left every note take him farther into his own mind. 

_8_

_Oxygen._

_The Strange Musician._

It was all about the story. A story from the book that Sherlock had found in the little girl’s room. An envelop with red-wax, “Grimm’s Fairy Tales”. Thinking back to the strange edition, he thought about the work he’d down, all the nights he spelt trying to solve this puzzle, keeping secrets from John. In the end, all he had needed was the framed Periodic Table in his room, the book of Fairy Tales, and a red marker. 

“The Strange Musician” was a story about a violinist, alone and looking for a companion. The violinist’s music attracts three different wild beasts, all of which he outsmarts, and all of which plan to have revenge on him. It is only in the end that the violinist finds a companion, someone who scares off the beasts and listens to his beautiful music. 

In many ways, the story was Moriarty’s way of mocking Sherlock. A personal jab at his ego. The story implied Sherlock as the violinist for obvious reasons, and the companion as John Watson. Yet, while the story had a happy resolve, Moriarty had done everything in his power to make sure the story remained a fairy tale, not reality.

_Not Sherlock’s reality._

_And that was why John’s life was in his hands._

_Why John’s life had been in Moriarty and Sherlock’s hands before._

_Easily manipulated and disposable._

_A pawn in the game._

_But a pawn worth living for._

Sherlock’s music came to an abrupt stop. He opened his eyes to realize that he’d been playing for quite a while, the sun was already peeking through the small window. He pulled the violin away from his shoulder and looked over the room, every surface. 

There was a bookshelf in every room of the house, Sherlock’s room had a smaller shelf filled with Science books. Journals and textbooks on Chemistry and Biology. A thin layer of dust covered everything that he could see. This room had been dusted often since his departure, but not often enough to make the room look un-aged and polished. 

There was a pile of empty jars against the opposite wall, jars that used to be filled with small insects and dead specimens. Experiments that had been created by a younger boy, someone quite different from the man he’d grown into today. 

_What used to be innocent, young and alive…_

_Was now calloused, aged, and unforgiving._

_Still a strange and lonely violinist._

_But it was different now, because he had known companionship._

_He’d known sentiment and friendship and love._

_And even that had been taken away from him._

Putting down the old violin, he closed the case and left it on the mattress. After looking around for a last time, he decided to leave this place be. 

_He wouldn’t return._

_At least not here._

Sherlock walked pack to the doorway and didn’t look back. He didn’t even bother closing the door behind himself. The others would know in the morning, they’s see that he’d finally gone inside.

_That he’d faced his fear and overcome it._

_And now it was time to find the assassin._

Striding back to the guest room, he opened the door and immediately walked towards the disorganized desk. Files and papers littered the whole surface and made his mind whirl around in unsteady twists and turns. His fingers greedily touched the papers and found what he was looking for. 

Holding up the crumpled map, he zeroed in on the distinction of the second assassin. He’d have to leave the country this time, but he was ready. 

_By the weekend, he’d have the assassin cold and dead and finished._

_Mrs. Hudson would be safe._

_And he’d be one step closer to home._

_To John._


	11. The Abandoned Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe…
> 
> Just maybe…
> 
> Opening that doorway could bring back the memories.
> 
> ...

Things dissolved pretty quickly after the mysterious break-in at Mary’s house. John had become more irritable, determined to keep Mary with him. She had always been very good at reading John’s feelings, seeing through his mixed emotions. Of course she’d try to talk to him about Moriarty, Sherlock, the strange things that had happened as soon as John had moved back to Baker Street. 

Mary had told John it would be best to leave, to move out of the flat at Baker Street before things got any worse. But whenever she brought it up, John would overreact and leave in a huff. Leaving Baker Street wasn’t an option, John would never leave this place completely, it was impossible. Just the thought of it sent uncomfortable shivers down his spine, made him feel more alone. Sherlock may not be here anymore, but something of him had been left behind in this place. Possibly it was because John hadn’t touched most of Sherlock’s things, he’d never cleared out Sherlock’s room. Mrs. Hudson was the one to remove experiments from the kitchen and sitting room, but everything else had remained the same. 

John didn’t tell Mary that Mycroft had spoken to him, that he had tried to break them up. He also didn’t tell her that Moriarty was dead. He could…  but John didn’t want to trust Mycroft, he felt like something was _still_ being kept from him. Mycroft was good at keeping secrets, but John could tell when there was something left unsaid. The weighty presence of secrets would cloud the room, it was always written in Mycroft’s expressions, but John wouldn’t say anything, it would just make things worse. Mycroft may have his own skills in deduction, but John was learning.

In truth, John knew that if he _truly_ loved Mary, he should give her up. It was the heroic thing to do, after all. But after losing so much… he just didn’t want to lose her presence in his life. Mary was the only thing keeping him from letting despair take over, the same despair that he experienced a few years ago, before knowing Sherlock. It was a time when nightmares of war clouded his subconscious, unlike now, with the fresh nightmares of Sherlock’s death. _That_ was a different battle entirely. 

Mary eventually stopped fighting him. Her visits became less, but she still tried to treat him with the same fondness she had when they first met. John tried to be on his best behaviour, but sometimes an innocent comment would be taken the wrong way and John would end up alone again for the night.

Mycroft called a couple times, but John ignored the calls. He already knew what Mycroft would say, it was always the same thing.

_Leave Mary Morstan before it’s too late._

Eventually, Mary came by the flat, an apology in her eyes. Her speech was very brief. In short, she was leaving town to accept a job offer in Cardiff. She left his life with a simple goodbye and few questions answered, no promise of a return. 

_Just like Sherlock left._

_No questions answered._

_No time for comment._

_Almost just as permanent too._

John never asked, but he had a feeling that Mycroft had something to do with it. He loathed the man, but perhaps it was for the best… 

_Or, that’s what he kept telling himself._

 

John was sitting in his armchair one evening, his eyes lingered on the chair across from him, the place where Sherlock used to sit. His eyes grew tired as he tried to remember Sherlock’s face. 

He could no longer recall the colour of Sherlock’s eyes. He could only recall the black depths of his pupils. Dark, dull, dead. The irises would remain a mystery, something left with the rest of the unsolved cases.

He also couldn’t remember Sherlock’s smile. It had always been a rare occurrence, something reserved for only the best of times. But when Sherlock _did_ smile, it was always bright and true. But even that was fading from John’s mind.

Putting his head in his hands, John closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the silence in the flat. He was completely alone now, the only two people he cared about were now gone forever. 

He thought about calling Harry, seeing how she was doing… But he didn’t know if it was dangerous to contact her. After all, she had been friends with Mary, and she was related to John. He dreaded the thought of losing his sister, the last person he had. 

John inhaled and looked out the window across from him. There was very little to see outside, the sky was cloudy and grey, a soft rain was falling. He looked back down at the tea beside his armchair. Steam was no longer rising from the mug, everything was… cold.

_Deathly cold._

_No._

_This wasn’t right._

_This isn’t the end of it._

John licked his lips and blinked away from the mug of cold tea. That wasn’t important now. Instead, he looked over his shoulder in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.

_He needed to do this._

_He needed to face this._

Every muscle tensed in John’s arms as he clutched onto the armrests of the chair. He wanted to push himself up and walk over to the doorway, he wanted to see the last markings of Sherlock’s existence.

_He needed to make himself believe that Sherlock had been real._

_That he had been there, living and breathing._

_He needed to see the disorder, the chaos that Sherlock had left behind._

_Maybe…_

_Just maybe…_

_Opening that doorway could bring back the memories._

_The cases._

_How many were there?_

_The fighting._

_What did they even fight about?_

_Was it ever really important?_

_The music._

_Especially the music._

_What did a violin even sound like?_

This was the vital moment, the decision. Without pause, John stood up, leaning onto one of the arms on the chair for support. His leg throbbed with fresh pain, getting worse with every day. 

John winced and moved away from the armchair, standing straight and maintaining his balance. He remembered back to the military, the orders, the strict instructions. 

_John was in control this time, the master of his own fate._

_No-one else was going to tell him what to do now._

Taking a step forward, the pain from his leg crawled up to his spine, he bit onto his lip and looked at the distance between his body and the door to Sherlock’s abandoned bedroom. Normally, that distance was insignificant, but today, it seemed like miles away. 

John inhaled and took another solid step, his feet planted flat onto the floor. He tried to move faster this time, less robotic. The pain seemed to escalate, but he took a couple more steps and felt a little stronger, adrenaline was in his favour.

With each step, the door seemed like it was at the same distance as before, as if he hadn’t moved at all. John felt like he wasn’t completely there, in this moment. 

_It was too much like a dream._

In fact, it reminded him of dreams and nightmares that he had had recently. Dreams where he was suspended in time, making his way to this door, the same door to Sherlock’s room. It felt like there was something hiding, something missing, and John had to open to door to find out. These dreams always ended with John getting inches away, the handle almost at his finger tips, but then he would wake up. 

_This time, it was real._

_He’d open the door._

_He had to._

John took another step, looked up from the floor to see that the door finally closer this time. It eased his mind to know that he was making progress, getting closer. 

The fear that had clouded his mind for the past two years had now cleared away, the simple barrier was only a small door handle. Before he could think about anything else, John was standing right in front of the door, inches from his finger tips yet again.

_He wasn’t going to wake up this time._

_This was real._

There was white-noise surrounding him, it threatened to make him turn back, try another day. John lifted his left hand to reach for the handle and noticed a tremor that stemmed from his wrist. He breathed in and out, concentrating on the task before him.

_So simple._

_Yet._

_No._

_It wasn’t._

John reached out his right hand and felt the smooth woodgrain under his fingertips. Touching the surface of the door was helping, it was reassurance. Finally gripping the handle, John forgot the tremor, and the limp, and Mary, and the fear and loneliness.Turning the handle, he heard the click and pushed the door open with both hands. 

Almost as soon as John had gained his bearings, he lost everything again. The coldness creeped under his skin and deepened, consuming him and making it difficult to breath. John felt his heart in his chest, it was weighty and powerful, beating with fresh fear and falling down into his stomach. He felt as if everything was failing, his mind and body, everything.

He looked into the room and couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was unreal and scary, one of the most frightening things he’d ever witnessed. In that moment, the strong army doctor was gone, and in his place was a fragile child. 

Gripping onto the side of the threshold, John tried to find balance, he leaned into the cold frame and let the cold make him numb to the bone. His eyes didn’t look away from what was before him, breathing laboriously, he felt his eyes begin to blur. Despite the sudden weakness, he spoke clearly through the thickness in his lungs and throat. 

“Sherlock.”


	12. Tick Tock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran sends his greetings.
> 
> Moran.
> 
> Who was this Moran?
> 
> The last assassin?
> 
> ...

It didn’t take Sherlock long to pack away his belongings. His deadline was getting closer, and he was well prepared for what was going to come next. Putting away the stack of Astronomy journals, he thought about where he could go, what he could do. Sherlock was sure that Mum and Mycroft wouldn’t know about his sudden departure, and he’d have to keep it that way. The last thing he needed was Mycroft tearing him away from this mission for good, keeping him locked up without privacy or freedom. 

After putting away the science journals, Sherlock went back to the bedroom to sort out the files for the last two assassins. With luck, there’d only be one assassin left by the end of the night. 

 

He pulled a backpack from under the bed, already filled with essential provisions such as the files, clothing, and a cell phone. It was already beginning to darken outside the window by the time that he was ready. Glaring at the setting sun, Sherlock forced the small bundle of papers into the pack and shrugged on his coat. 

The course black fabric was reassuring, something that reminded him of days back at Baker Street. Of course, this coat was a little different from his original coat, which was somewhere in Molly’s flat right now, waiting for Sherlock to retrieve it and rejoin the living. 

_The thought of it all sent new adrenaline through his veins._

_By the end of the night he’d be another step closer to home._

_Another step closer to Baker Street, to John._

Pulling the backpack over his arm, Sherlock strode to the wide bedroom window. By now, the sun was only a small line of bright yellow, orange and red on the horizon. The sky had gone from purple to deep blue and black. 

Sherlock slid open the window as wide as he could, inhaling the fresh air with a smile on his face. 

_There was no turning back now._

But then there was a small sound behind him. Sherlock resisted the urge to turn around, afraid of being discovered. The last thing he needed was for someone to slow him down.

_Not now._

“Sherlock” 

Grimacing at the sound of his mother’s voice, he turned to face her. The smile that he had worn only moments ago was now replaced with guilt… shame. It took a moment for him to realize that he was repeating his past, recreating a moment that he dreaded to think about.

_The moment he left home, as an adolescent._

_The evening that he’d left his family behind to start his own life in London._

_But this time, he wasn’t alone as he escaped._

_This time, his mother was watching._

Sherlock looked towards his mother, faced her with the bravery he longed for as a child, as a teenager, and even as an adult. Pain was written in his mum’s expression, her arms hugged her chest as if her heart was physically aching. But she stood tall, her head high. 

Taking a couple steps towards her, he reached for her shoulders. Grasping her thin arms, he embraced her and kissed her on the forehead. It was quick, Sherlock didn’t want to linger. His mother understood, he could see it light up her pale eyes in a way that he hadn’t seen in a very long time.

_A time long forgotten._

“I love you,” his mum said, smiling up at her boy. Sherlock paused, the proper words didn’t want to form in his mouth. He returned a small smile and cupped the side of her face in his hand, something that he’d only done once before. When Mrs. Hudson has been hurt by the American in their flat at Baker Street. 

In this moment, his mother reminded him of Mrs. Hudson. They were both very gentle, devoted to him in a very quiet and sincere way. It was… nice. The thought of being loved brought a warm feeling to his chest, it was a feeling that he’d always wondered about and hadn’t experienced for as long as he could remember. 

“I love you too,” Sherlock said, the phrase sounded so odd coming from his own lips, but he quickly looked away and turned back to the open window. Putting a leg out onto the ledge, he found the right crevice that would support him as he climbed down the side of the house. 

“Be careful,” his mum said behind him. Sherlock looked down at the ground far below the window. Without responding to her, he climbed down towards the bottom. 

_Being careful was not a promise that he could make…_

_Or keep for that matter._

 

By the time that Sherlock reached Cardiff, it was nearing midnight. He sped up the car as he drove, hardly caring for speed limits and road restrictions. Driving was an occupation that Sherlock hardly needed to practice, while he lived in London, taxis were the main form of transportation. Occasionally, he’d take the tube, but only when there was no other way. (He hated having idiots in such close proximity on to him on the train, expelling toxic carbon dioxide and spreading bacteria. A breeding ground for stupidity and illness.) Tonight would be an exception to the rules of the road though, it was urgent that Sherlock find the assassin before the man discovered that Sherlock was on his trail.

It wouldn’t take Sherlock long to find this one, in fact, it would be much easier than when he searched for the first one. By now, Sherlock was already ahead of the game, he was already looking for information on the third and last assassin. Though, unfortunately, he only had the small useless files from John. The same small package that had collected dust in their flat at Baker Street for the past two years. It felt like it had been ages since Sherlock crept back into the flat and collected the files from the desk. He could hardly remember seeing John, though admittedly, it was difficult to see anything in the dark. All that he could remember was the aged features on the solitary sleeping figure, his only friend. 

_John._

Turning the car onto an empty side street, Sherlock swerved to a stop and collected his small pack of belongings. First, he’d find the assassin. Next, he’d find somewhere to stay. 

It all sounded like an easy task to him, like a materials list to one of his own experiments. But this was quite different, the outcome much more vital than any hypothesis being proven correct. 

Leaving the car, Sherlock carefully walked down the silent street, aware of every sound and movement. 

_The dripping from an eaves._

_The distant sound of a car door closing._

_Brief flicker of light coming from an old street lamp._

_A homeless cat, making it’s way towards a dark alley._

The night was cool, much cooler than Sherlock had expected. He pulled the collar of his coat up against the faint wind. A chill ran through his body as he felt for the gun hooked to his belt. 

All the facts and clues ran through his mind, it started to become too distracting but Sherlock shifted his thoughts of Mrs. Hudson, John, home so that the disorder and chaos that plagued him no longer threatened to pull at his attention. 

This wasn’t London, but Sherlock knew exactly where to go. He’d looked over maps for hours, memorizing every street corner and shop. Mycroft had provided him with a collection of different maps, each one specializing in a different area of the United Kingdom. The map of Cardiff was heavily marked with pen and red marker, each possible hide-out was labeled with care. 

Sherlock looked at the intersecting street signs before him and turned down onto a street that was very dimly lit. This was the most likely location out of the numerous other ones on the map, and Sherlock was sure that the man was close at hand. 

Drug dealers and addicts littered the alleys in this neighbourhood, Sherlock could tell by the smell in the air and the markings on the brink walls alongside him. It was most likely that the assassin was a dealer, he’d be unsuspecting on a night like this, Sherlock would have him dead in seconds. 

There was the faint sound of discussion coming from an alleyway only a block ahead, Sherlock already began to feel his pulse quicken, eyes wide in anticipation. 

_Only a block away from the assassin._

_The killer._

_Only a block away from saving Mrs. Hudson’s life._

_One step closer to going home._

After turning the corner and finding the source of the noise, he peered through a crevice in the wall and waited for the rugged man to exit the alley with a new stash of drugs up his sleeve. 

The assassin was alone now, counting notes and putting them away in his breast pocket. His back was turned away from Sherlock’s view, it was impossible to see if the man had a gun or any sort of weapon on hand. 

_Now was the time._

_This was it._

Sherlock stepped forward and pulled the cold handgun from his belt. The man stilled from his crouched position in the corner of the alley, a hand was hovering over his trouser pocket. 

“I knew you’d be alive,” the man said in a gruff voice, thick with caution. “The big man said that you was smart. Not smart as the Professor, no, but smart enough to fool the rest of the world.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond, he was shocked by what the man had said. He didn’t want to believe a word of it, he didn’t want to believe that they knew all along, that… they could have possibly been playing him the whole time. Sacrificing employees wouldn’t have mattered to Moriarty, he only cared about his own skin. And now, Moriarty was dead and he’d left his best men with the job of killing each and every one of the people whom Sherlock cared about. Maybe they had just been waiting for the right time to finish him off, maybe they were watching him right now.

Sherlock fought the urge to look behind himself, see if he could discover anyone watching him. But it was probably a trick, a way to pull his attention away from the assassin. 

Raising the gun into view, Sherlock readied his hand, finger on the trigger. The assassin could hear him, slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder and into the barrel of the gun in Sherlock’s steady hand. A smile spread across his face and Sherlock felt terror curl up his spine and send adrenaline through his blood stream. 

“Moran sends his greetings,” the man said, a faint laugh in his throat. 

Sherlock swallowed as the thickness in his own throat, willing himself the pull the trigger. 

_He had to do this._

_He had to kill the man._

The assassin seemed to sense Sherlock’s faltering faith in himself, and just as he was about to throw his head back and laugh, a flood of emotions and images raced through Sherlock’s mind. 

_Images of Mrs. Hudson._

_Of John._

_Especially John._

_Nightmares of death and destruction._

_Alone._

_Both of them…_

_Gone._

“Tick tock,” The man grunted a cold and sinister laugh.

_Alone._

_Alone._

_ALONE._

Sherlock pulled the trigger and watched the man collapse forward onto the cold, wet ground. The laughter was dead as soon as it had started, and so was the man himself. Sherlock carefully pulled the body over to get a look at his face. The eyes were still open, cold and dead, pupils blown. Blood distorted the man’s face, dripping from his gnarled flesh and pooling onto the concrete. 

_Sherlock couldn’t believe that he’d done it._

_He’d killed the man._

Stepping towards the man who had been assigned to kill Mrs. Hudson, he could already smell the blood merging with the stench of weed and recent rainfall. He thought about what the man had said in his final moment.

_Moran sends his greetings._

_Moran._

_Who was this Moran?_

_The last assassin?_

Sherlock’s eyes followed the trail of fresh blood from the man’s neck as it crawled down his chest. The dead man’s coat was open, revealing a small piece of paper from inside a hidden pocket. Sherlock pulled a small stack of photos from the pocket, turning them over to see the images. They were splattered in the dead man’s blood, Sherlock ignored the sensation of slick blood on his fingers and recognized the face in the photographs.

In that moment, it felt as if his heart was no longer beating and incredibly heavy. Sherlock thumbed through the images in his hands and felt fear take him. To his dismay, the same face was in every photo. Sherlock had never been so unwilling to see that face as he was in this moment, in these images. 

_John._

_Tick tock._

Without a second thought, Sherlock put his gun in his pocket and ran out of the alley as fast as he could. The blood from the photographs had become sticky on his hands, beginning to dry onto his skin. He pushed the images into his pocket.

_He had to get away from here._

_He had to find the last assassin._

_Moran._

_Moran sends his greetings._

_In the form of photos._

_Photos of John Watson._

It was a threat. And for all that Sherlock knew, Moran was watching John in this moment, his hand on the trigger. One of the photos in the pile had been of John, looking out of the window from the flat on Baker Street. That photo would have been taken from a window of the flat across the street. 

_Someone was watching John from that window._

_Waiting for the chance to set the target and release._

_Tick tock_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of Part 2: The Second Year of "All Falls Are Fatal". The beginning of Part 3: The Third Year is already available, you can find it on the page with my other works or go to the link right below this message. Thank you so much for the kudos, I hope you continue to enjoy it, and don't hesitate to leave your comments. Enjoy! :)


End file.
